The regimen is the regime; can’t wake up, life is a
war call, the trumpet keeps bleeding. Hating his guts, it’s a waste of
ingredients, so sore, eating cayenne pepper. Like loopy and devastated, mad
another has done goodness. Too tipsy to see, or just high enough, as to ignore
the symbols. I was so young, so sick, you hold a soul guilty for being
unsteady. The pride in the apology. The angst at the wake. The prison in the
bars. To test what a soul has been through; without knowledge of his plight;
nor the noir and nightmare in his horizon: to push his guts, to splay his
integrity, to hate like it has become natural. I remember a man, quite silent,
quite rich—to have become violent, in an instance, depended upon a nation of
misidentified warriors; try it easy, solo, with nothing but pictures and
mirrors and metals to sustain the controversy. I fathom the understanding—right,
wrong or indifferent, we perish as a pride; to feel unsteady, with a hand
reaching out, with fever and grind and dynasty—the math of the geometric, the
frame in the longitude, like mathematicians torn asunder. Told to be self. Bold
in the struggle. It must be illegal, to have become more than another will
tolerate. Lastly, souls lose for speaking out truths. And it’s so bizarre, I wonder
to whom I am speaking.
