It’s a gray sky, filled with bravery, a man in his
linen. Spawn by surrealness, moving through Latin America, reading the social
talk; to belie myself, a dream in a shadow, a jaguar by her eyes. Canine teeth,
vampire instincts, torn scalps—to have adored her essence, to shiver by her
love, mad at the way she shuns me; cervical regions, pelvis sensations, at a
soul making God livid. Werewolf sensations, to make right, to cherish the
author of Faith; filled with blurriness, should be disgusted, trying to
understand dysfunction. The stealth becoming might, the might of the stealth—surrounded
by precious souls, bit to the gristle, mad at the way we adore life; so
nonchalant, so superficial, at a muscle in a grunion. A sadder person,
examining art, seeing captivity in a free slave. Summing up on angst, at a
belief, so close to what would never adore me.
