At sunrise, many illusions, from coast
to ocean; semi-distorted language,
uncreated vice, Love is in detox.
To disagree with eternity. To have
sway inside. To know lies have been
formed. I see repetition of sulfuric rain—by lace in
adventure—curious, cursed, with access to religion. Assorted candies.
Re-spelled intrusion. Deaths. Spasms. Humiliation. Only to rebuild. To sing
song. So much
on line, on dance. It’s hard to confront
you.
You push away. Life is hard enough—sobriety is sullen,
low, unrelenting. I was with desire
to save some person; in art, she was livid, under spell, we have little to
wrestle over,
with intention to create hymns and liturgies; a
problem to perception, a delight in silence, entitled, gray, afforded many
mistakes.
Like taste-buds, acquiring predilections,
softer acidities: one long river, not courage,
hoping for numbness, or naivety.
