I Pretend It Was Different People

 

I try to hear the voice, one last dungeon, a lie told in honor; celebrating nonsense, contrary to instincts, cultures trespassed, devastation, toxic forgiveness—again to perish, different pictures, bleeding sobriety, flowing into a deeper pain—many flowers, more anxiety, like framed in a big joke. I wonder about humors, hours in entertainment, alone, begging a memory—so affected, over a fox, made in snakes, astrology seeming pertinent; much pain, laughing with culture, the way we share what we desire—a colder need, splayed in pride, aching, private warfare. It had to make sense. It had to be right. A person controlling irony—a future built, years tumbling, tumbleweeds, sea grass, begging some mirror.  

Nothing At All

 

We would speak melody. Nothing is sufficient. Pausing to see you, sacrificing all of silence, trying to make a moment forever. Lanterns underground, ivory spears, unspoken, remorseful facts; lines in sand, seashores, seahorses, palms of sediments, soil speaking, green and plush excellence—moving motion, debating distraction, made sufficient. Cold, powerful courtship, in darkness to propose, dropdown arms, chalk became life, numbness became entrance—beginning wounds, hurt enough to stop loving, interrupted, researched, to hate the one giving life. By dungeon terror—again testing kismet, most unthought vision, most crafted artifact, rivers made of miseries. So wrong. Ethics are sacrificed. Siding into prose, tulips become mystic, marigolds dance, gallicas smile.

Black Music

 

Natural fact is, hand to hand, soul for spirit—panic seizes, the world must protect itself. Dry air, insincere desert, quality over quantity the muse watches, perusing, art seems to hurt. Gelada regions, baboon rapture, some creature becomes us—bad breaks, closing the record shop, forfeiting the betting, trying to fix a petal—roses walking, turned in circles, asking for comfort; mandrill genetics, ape composure, sullen disposition, beautiful eyes; nights filled with tarsiers, aye-ayes, dark purple passions; kilometer ambitions, sins piling, dissipating, the struggle one will undergo. Many have-knots, surrendering on high, concluding this isn’t righteous. To seize life, to determine unkindness, to know privilege—one sins less, agrees more, takes account for wrongs, drifts, and wonders concerning folly.   

Naivety & Silence

 

Colorless children, if taught to remeasure, nimbus excellence.

Rules make for risk, mingling made for sin—of thought, born

Of action, freefalling, surrendering, it was human, it became

Kef, spirit as in dimension, halo, as with bane—dear into

Forest, to have adored skies, looking forward, nary a doubt,

Nary a drop.

Oh Color, from Rome to Japan, from Egypt to

Canada—fueled by interior, knit by hope, needing absolute

Freedom—

If sunshine prevails.

Energy with intelligence. Arcs with hierarchy. Caves with

Petroglyphs. By risk to have worshipped—unbeknownst to me—

Framed by grass, halo green, a child given his inheritance—

Baseborn, misery made normal, a great fight, to outwit a feeling.

Debating tenets. Sacrificing rules. Facing dehydration, famine,

Kingdoms;

Australian mysticism;

Indian yogis;

Asian shamans.

Fresh water baptism; to come up with fever; to have little

Towards ‘transmitters;

Walls tumbling, greater weight, to listen to naivety, faced by

Challenge, either contend or let live.

Counting in pleasure, permission of Flame, to concede with

Passion, darkness with space, illumination with heaving.

Freedom as liberation;

Latin seas;

A return to Judah;

Further into an Island: Greece.

Motion like water, mud like saturated, clarity like deep defeat:

Dry thunder, moist sleet, gossamer hanging low.

Everything one needs, becoming that person, pleading by a

Tender Light—

Made sentimental.

Just For Silence

 

Love made light, had darkness, tilling garden—a thief of arcs, breezy sails, raving over nightfall; lioness haven, cheetah empire, too much spirit to let go; make it remarkable, terrible excellence, featured in songs—the massage was internal—weathered interior, if you were there, a mirror, speaking to self, trying to outdo visions—falling in passion, powerful pleasure, the attribute by umbrella—to call it Love. Longer daydreams, pash made perfect, tightened, relaxed, some dream, with Love angling, surrendering, so acrobatic, perfect justice, major tears. Daffodils. Old poetry. Ancestral energy. To have needed you, a reflection of skies, seated in converse—music made magical, each treasure, every art, uncouth animals: much to mimic, marble ceilings, stereotypes and compassion. In adoring silence, an epiphany in meadows, a platypus giggling—to know whispers, to age tenderly, affixed to immortal cravings—battle of excellence: back to it, early morning, classics of nature—acting out, coming to conclusions, asking for mercy. Too delicate to overcome, too irregular to become normal, so much to arrive with wings.   

Same Ancestor

 

An orchid garden—surrounded by scarecrows, the fields full of outcrops. It might amaze her, to understand, her husband writes, an author, just to impress her. Another is a doctor, to purchase items, to satiate materialistically; herring bones, diamonds, interior sexuality, to have died holding her heart. Ringlets. Smokestacks. Needing orgasmic wheezing. I new an unstuck feeling. I exercised with banshees. I sold huarache(s). An Armani soul, an Ann Taylor spirit, two in affects, misunderstood, gothic because its first in line; perched, unclothed, singing about birdies—father of greater sadness, to try at escape, to become too hardened, as to have compassion, showing a lesion, a wounded womb, wrestling aloofness. Seeing souls bleached, major affliction, all colors are racing for identity. Marina obsessions. Billie Eilish. Prince. A desperation in Jacksons. Writing life, a foreign penmanship, cursed to have found too much, a graying weather, a seed in a snake, an egg trying to hatch. (Many a soul has fought for purchase an empire.) And loving you has been embarrassing. A sickened man, settled in needs, finding satisfaction in adoring what hurts. By a forest, tropical parrots, vertical lovemaking, trees 100 meters high; starling shows, to impress again, angelic scars, milky pangs, a primitive, warlike possession—those eyes asking questions, dry, made wet as oils, trying to overcome instincts; mother of a son, cousin of a prophet, so great the inheritance. Swirling skies. Winning miracles. Loving has been an adventure. (First encounters seem more compelling. Something to it. To have defied gravity.) Again with blocked thoughts. Mandarin pains, a line on recording, a love for something desiring heaving(s). Senses destroy us. Correlation is possible. As far back as commonality, sameness of antiquity, forefathers and mothers the same ancestor.      

When It Opens

 

Listen for her voice. Obey the churchbell. Understand where you dwell. Birds withstand weather. Lizards roam deserts. Elephants search for water. I have come to worship. I have come for cleansing. Upon the altar, I’ve gripped horns. I was baptized. I was given a name. They say the sun will again reign. Many a blue scar—simplistic blocks—writing should be interesting. Peregrines on high—through you we live, wings a meter by ambition. I have lived in you, fretting friendship, humans are conglomerate emotions. To commune may overwhelm, hardness of breath, kef seeming like torture—to understand where it came, where it dwells, where it went. I might assert on reality. If to make a claim. You might agree—share it with a spirit—and come to contend with thoughts. Much of life is freedom, beauty, despite, redundancy—an absurd air, a condition, as it links communities: the face in its mirror, looking familiar, can’t quite grasp its song; a lake with ripples, a face moving, can’t quite solidify its contour. Looking upon skies, seeking escape, if for a time, to find motion, to have experience, to become mystic in horizon.     By force into a kingdom, gates demolished, to lay a flag, and announce holiness; a greater soul, magnificent glory, to know elements, shift stars, praise interior—aside a nature, if it becomes, it might destroy itself.     I reread reflection, some things change, others struggle, it becomes insecurity.  

Observed Years

 

A flower couldn’t blossom, lacking oxygen, cursed by nature—abandoned to street colors; life with elephants, filing shark teethe, racing—nowhere to call solace; a

 

California ache, magazines full of ideals, brochures bleeding the human instinct. A soul has penchants, paying penance, one wonders what order is: a castle inside interior, a

 

notice signifying sin, two or three steps behind justice; learning to twist sentences, imaging the reader, fumbling between pictures. Time having a place. Discussion

 

reframed. City whales chasing dreams. And Art made it worse, formed in parts, a soul is a monster—to dirt, back to sorrows, smelling a pleasing scent. Memories. Rebirth. &

 

human rugs.     Engine power, diesel travels, snowy valleys, melting mountains, most disregarding the years filled with miseries, for today, there was joy!     Many wrapped in

 

hopes—in the next life—with parable and fable to seduce the hearer; days lost, jackals and hyenas, too many passwords on existence; sameness of song, gallicas blooming,

 

wrestling a foxglove; most watching life, edging into silence, waiting on opportunity. Paradise is sad. To carry a hippopotamus. Trying to fly indelicate weather. And they saw

 

him, filled with favor, compelled to investigate, assuming its dark magic—perception of the third-eye, decision of a human soul, too many suffering interior—either a blessing or

 

a dungeon or in between—where have most walked?     Intuition grieving, no answers, wondering why tears fall unbeknownst to senses; leaping wings, filled to capacity,

 

pushed to contain more—leviathan eating monsters, roles inverted, trying to keep eyes on Love—with rumors seeming true: the pride of fashion, the dignity in honesty, to realize

 

Love is losing lure—with interests waning on essence; so unfigured—so gray—born to become what pleases Spirit; if only so simple, each thought is a decision, as becoming

 

countenance.     A flower couldn’t blossom, lacking sustenance, cursed to exist in vain—abandoned to numbness; to know excellence, to praise ideals, to understand instincts, if to

 

live according to sociality, identity shifting.     Thunderstorms. Glancing at Love. To realize certain exhilaration—found in personhood—meter long ambition; until the next life, hoping we meet again, the best of those observed years.      

One Will Hate The Solace

 

Laughter has odor. Silence has an acorn. Loving must remain innocent. So removed from mirrors, never sealing as it derives, by cliff to leap into meaning. Living is rarely perfect, one would be shallow, mediocre, to discount tragedy, blankness, made numb, desiring unity—of expression, reception, miracle and depth. Facing each other. Believing in value. Striving for arête. Can’t quiet indifference, as it becomes me, sensing mirrors, treasuring parts of the rubber bands. Couldn’t fathom how it becomes; couldn’t predict shadows; one made insecure due to dearth of character, must unwind, must dream, swallowing songs, mind on repeat, accustomed to thinking about souls. What to scream, at impassivity, at no one there? The room is street colored—the design is on record—so easy to walk away … to believe in nothingness, a facial smile, it loses its sting.  

Empty Bottle

 

I do more imagining than soul might permit. I intuit more than I analyze. Living by sin, trespassing sin, transgressing against sin. To have loved in thought, to have felt every prose, with nothing in a dungeon to call home. To have touched, loved, dared freedom, and hung from a spirit tree. Most fixated … only a moment … prurient omen, salacious covers, so afraid of affection; gregarious and tender, provocative and hurt, or, never to have life—those pages making maturity—seducing mere souls. I do more to avoid a thought, while it pops into intermission, adoring what Prince would see. I make penalties, I soak up miseries, I become prose and panic and privilege. Aesthetic angst. Treasure and more sin. To have noticed one in her prime—the fever of the flame the favor of the fire. So simple it churns, so rich it hurts, so sad we measure into a bottle.

Addressing The Shadows

 

I intrude often, washing dingy denims, laughing over nonsense. I worship carefully—seeing faces, phantoms, illusions, remembering her name. I was sicker in tales, pursuing courtship, one too content to whisper—acacia snow, excellent misconduct, ducks headed into seas—most filthy terrain, slanted prose, helpless addiction: tambourine petals, trombone insistence, cacti pains—to have adored, in an instant, unreasonable pash; an infatuated forever, weather made bane, assailed in soul, making harmony. If I were a friend, running through darkness, would she fight for me? Too many potholes, too much false luxury, many living in a ten-minute space. Slovakia mysticism; jackals on liquor; a crest of stars—to have amore of America, to hate differences, fueled by agreements; a prehistoric instinct, warring primitive attraction, seated in fantasies.  

“Portuguese Love”

 

Say you would if time permitted the purple moon. Every thought makes love to satisfaction. Anatomy prose, leaving was with pains, art breeding, skeptic the horizon. Portuguese exotic, a man desires what he never has—honeyguide feathers; hating what she adores, loving what destroys, like a curse God renders; ebbing, shoreline illusions, baffled, deeper love, to promise a child unbeknownst to the ember; wallowing in transparency, afraid many ghosts are upon us, to adore in chalice, design, pleasures—so bent the winds are mourning. Kenya eyes, Jerusalem hips, African breasts—to let go, to ask for mercy, to bleed Jesus! Topi birds, songs favored, to announce Yahweh’s name—blood marooned, an island with fever, coming so close to forfeiting—majesty of its trance, feeling goodness, too few hallucinations.  

Frame of The Ghosts

 

I spurn a kiss, self-centered adolescent, undressed in personality, redressed in desire, a past filled with infidelities; either afraid of love, manipulating mind, or soul deep in surrendering; a cage for spirit, a bible belt for assertion, love like me, or die like me, or walk away from me. Like a small town with a secret; like a musician with a scream; like trying to break out of flesh. Spurs into horses, maximizing performance, despite, causing irreparable damage. If to love, if to hurt, would life turn to us? Sound travels slowly, it appears like a whisper, to kiss one first time; frozen seas, firework skies, to do only as one permits—blood jazz, terror blues, ontological proofs—like dying was illegal, hiding under tables, pushing lines into weather. If I were closest promise, scriptural evidence, conviction in treasures—to again die in arms—the frame of the ghosts.  

Symbolic Sky

 

Harmful essence, a girl’s inclination, baseborn, awful science—the way we die; one friend, to run into, around a lake of metaphors. Angst epiphany, pyramid eyes, Isis made queen. Drilling wrongness, alighting sociality, passion, rumor, being in love—to hurt a soul, to ask of soul—one last memory. Craving, cleaving chaos, dungeon deep, harps and happiness grieving hunger. If a confidant, to fail innocence, some type of error—yearning for excellence. Many a mile, a sensuous smile, so helpless, being in love, running back to adolescence. Could it be without insistence? Would it become of its own credence? I ask—pleading daylight, fraught by wilderness, wild horses, as two wrangle. Harmful essence, a soul’s wrestling, reborn, fighting the great darkness; as best friends, bathing alone, a mind washes its sins—pure remorse, framed in gold, redressing an innocent ribbon.  

Unto Boxes & Despite Flaws

 

Worse in breakage, filth in pains, to hurt and die one final breath; sexual pastime, angst, anxiety, to have dirt, to make film, with damages slaving for freedom. Bodies raving—by brain battle, alive it would sense its destruction. Looking in disappearance. Framed in darkness. Everyone becomes pirates. Teal black ships, sails bleeding innocence, a deadman walking. So insidious, so loud the nights, rolling, most sinful, to laugh, drop a tear, and frame a high five. Portrait smiles, sorrow made happiness, filled with tomorrow’s hopes. Dying to please, teasing at a flaw, either she loves or she dies. Luckily at failures, fevered at osmosis, if one performs life is still gray. Could never believe in fidelity of flesh, only loyalty of acts, to wonder what life demands. Either all of nothing, or nothing of everything, to adore Love come sins of skin and water.

The Hologram Is Life

 

Days are exhausted. Pain has a window. Another widow just passed away.

I need to fly, let death be afraid, let angst take her course.

                                    Dear Ambition,

                                                it was hell in fires, damages in waters, made fresh in excellence. To do as it was done might ruin a soul. Werewolf paws, coyote eyes, made to become reckless—if dying was wrong, it would have a veto aside it; piccolo guts, acid arts, pensive guarantees. Peace was inevitable, long as it lives, to admire the talents of an adversary; a bad attitude, a moody disposition, more are falling for Love.

                                                By basin to bathe, by terror to treasure—making armor insignificant;

loving as it pinches, snatches, pulls, a man is more his shames.

                                                We traipsed America, arguing over meaning, given philosophic nightmare.

                        I adored her, made love with her, to sin, to cross life, wishing in metaphysic principle. A wallet trickled with memories, a notebook filled with prose, a scholar to have hated the author. To picket memories, to ticket discussions, a fiat on happiness.

And to sit and muse, to wonder in turn, to ask if it lives, to know it was never an ambition.    

Sky Glasses

 

the grass is winter frost, by its gallicas, born in direction—passion of the animal, majesty of a king—the suffrage of a woman; until it circles around, with hell languishing, to know we’ve done our best; sincere recollection, true art, couldn’t call it quits; a bag of beliefs, an empty horizon, a soul to his convictions: radical pangs, growth as it stumbles, to arrive with empty palms. i might in dreariness, made treacherous over gold, to have impressed angels—the world falling! when time begun, nothing was in sight, we can’t compute time; multiplying guesses, trees sprouted, skies enveloped fires—so congested, losing excellence, to have said so little—on matter, structure, balance, irrational illusion, by rational delusion, so great an oxymoron. it could have us, a sudden galaxy, trumpets silenced, to make difference seem spectacular.

Love Breaks Its Box

 

By elixir by chalice by mystique—to have become myths, to desire it hurts—surreal spirits, mind motion, distant lands make purpose; shame drilled in, pain lingering by sewers, surprised to a feeling, linked to a notion, to again fret tenets; certain fire, bells ringing, to suffer by clemency.          Oh Ancient Wound, made of elasticity, too close in measure, reborn an instance, troubled by mixtures, confliction, scheduled for dust, bone and worms. If nudged by emotion, if sealed by forms, semi-lust, count self,

fortunate.

One will fathom darkness, another will relish in light, others will vacillate between extremes.

She will appear, painted in allure, a soul will fight the noticed.

History abused notion—savaged at gates, measured against each taste, ice dripping, heaters and hearts.          A map of social pangs, interior government, like a computer—a program, repeating destiny, warring against nature, thus, deep and dark depression.

          Collecting energies, forming data, violins bleeding the blues—pleasured to have met, pain to have existed, friendship to have died, wrapped in breath, breathing infinity, to love like teenagers.

          Alike to media power, a bond bled of innocence, the worst of us, the best of sounds—to try harder, to pledge our lives, begging for rightness … a curse in its blessing.

          Physic freedom, to sudden in approach, spirit-video, goals made in feelings—to give to each emotion, to try to hold each promise, swaying, seesawing, pressured to live again.

                    Indebted to wreckage, in fact, as a matter of principle, to have known in love—invincibility, polite damnation, greeting and sin; to suggest its pain, a softer kiss, everything put into jousting, fierce nothingness, nothing means so much, accused of sour fires.

                    Succulent medicine, human origin, to have elixir in its scream—announcing its name by Morning Star—to consecrate excellence, a moment undying, unborn, breathing its dimensions; cedarchests filled with foreignness, rugs in space, floating becomes unreal: one terrible partner, one existence in dreams, to tug and push best of its anxieties; old-fashioned chemistry, everything and dying to love, nothingness and dying to live: love has her recipe.

                    Storage arts, frames, more angst, filled with paradox, favored in contradiction. The way it stings, a tender caress, tongue dice, slithering in perfection; speech on its highway, to say so much, with surreal language webbing its arc. To have resurrected, needing fierce compassion, knowing her dynasty is soul—a new sin, a beginning portrait, a banshee pleading redemption—mother of skies, father of earth, sister of deepness—made in Wisdom, found in Heaven, creative in progeny.

                    To give all in its receipt; to film good times; to hold each second as dear memory, an anniversary in time.

Arguing over love, pledged to outdo each other.

Consciousness—Self & Not-Self

 

The book opens to page one, refaced, it doesn’t avail, stories told, meaning seeming askew—living by intuition.

 

Rooms are filled with radiance.

 

Something’s missing—deeper seas, sable-colored souls, with love sounding ancient, symbolic, antiquated, out to lunch.

 

Admiration!

 

Palms are filled with dust. Dirt flung. Gowns torn, rend asunder.

 

Whatever it is—in has memory, intelligence, scheme, scam, and skill. Itself, a component of self, foreign country, untaught dimensions, taken to extremes, one forgets to unleash tears. Mountain sacredity. Langurs lounging. Swimming airs—it must be as it seems, if not, Skeptics are incorrect, thus, surface is deceptive. To have sensation—dolphins mid-waves, to awaken a little sweaty: mirrors to methodology, theoretical verses practical, many mistaken as passing by. Social creatures seem skilled. Introverts get a ruined name. Extroverts seem to push boundaries, said, unheard, until it catches one’s ear. With art comes concentration, tapping into self, moving into tides: mythos legends, pathos concerns, ethos as valued over knowledge: febrile language, anxiety in treasuries, discussing plankton.  

Majestic Dialogue Book

 

Every jot recorded.

Selected by self,

game sharpened,

at helium for lunch. Troubled ambition, mediocre passings, life becomes esoteria.

To have subsumed existence,

to have fallen for memories,

at Love by magic—

burning incense.

Every jot recorded—

if to determine his lies—

a laugh at the expenses. Dedicated. Submission to letters, many combinations, to have sprouted over soil.

Are we coherent?

I ask as time suffers;

I conclude as clouds dissipate.

Most gracious wines, so pressed to appear, with newness causing nostalgia, and biology might trigger attraction.

The chesswoman, generous machination, operating by intuition, fueled by devious elements:

every jot recorded.

I dilute meaning, if to contain temperaments, wondering what world has all Pisces. Machete intellect,

scholar driven,

too wise for mere

knowledge.  

Nature Is By Riddle & Rhyme

 

Calamity churning souls, pride made sacred, anxiety born to excellence.

 

I was more about culture, given traumas, deep seas, detoured hopes—emotion needing its training.

 

A vase of damsel flies, a jug of bee honey, a cliff of gutter art. In becoming a mongoose, baffled again, suffering hallucinations; cobras watching, insects swarming, confusion tender in its mourning. Most misunderstood, kites on a summer’s day, to ask a lady if breathing hurts? Sour, iconic rain, dazzling motion, angst and aesthetics—fueled by hope filled tales. To paint seahorses, to kneel at a creek, to enjoy flesh, taste skin, sip salt—a bag of feathers, adrift upon a whisper, arriving in pieces: wrestling happiness, as it blends with pains, coming and going as she pleases: no greater exhibition, trying as we sail, surrounded by psychic observation—Panama dreams, peninsula passions, numbers as sins, graves as portals, caves made into revelation. Sure primatology—torn into confetti, skies filled with drawers, as once upon a time: Malaysia beauty, Africa radiance, at some indecent diamond. Upon a blue sun, listening to drongo, nibbling desert grass—tears and tiles, cacti and clouds, elephants bathing in mud. To have thought exception, to have chilled in tone, as believing against nature—a fierceness in gold, weaving out weathers, born selfish, becoming selfless, to writhe in agonies.      

Social Panama

 

Rules break accompanied by silence the armor bleeding its justice. I was aware. I fell from grace. I’ve ignored the obvious.

Aquarium festivities, often through guise, families look happier.

Each proposition defies what we mean by sociality.

Years pass by, activity is sameness, soundness is undermined, opposites need some excellence in each other.

Playing piano, afore a gecko, feeling solace in some dreary dream.

A room filled with straightjackets, Christ upon a demented soul, wreckage and battle, unorthodox measures, prodigies, to have multiplied letters.

Emotion footprints—to need a soul slanted, to resist inner goodness, to die each step.

Sunset prayers. Numen instigation. Some realities are too much to receive.

He would see life differently.

Dry ocean. Elderly deer. Sacrificed cheetahs. To have life in excellence, torture as it might excel.

Watching ants. Kneading dough. Remembering Elijah … a still, small voice ….

The Keyboard Is a Scar

 

The keyboard is a scar—trying as we do—indeed, essence boiling reluctant to ooze out; ripples through skies, boundless vision, to need, to seduce anodyne.

The tempo is announcing life.

Mental jiu jitsu, if to survive, attempting as we do. Teardrops upon soil, trees grow, each seed is a legacy—

sweet slumber.

Religious eyes, soulful guts, rubescent lips. Either live or perish.

A spirit of rivulets, banshee woods, solar ether, collars and suits.

To need something unknown to its needer.

Shapeless beliefs, angel reefs, most will desire you—some mystical caption, physicality in vogue, to endorse you, many will stick like valves.

An upsurge of upheaval and dynamite expression, to become living religiosity.

Too much to see those brows, forming discontent, mad, elated, shuffling, laughing with tears; those years, falling from gravity, rising in grace.

By angst.

What Becomes Human?

 

Women know devastation. The arts know redemption. A picture is silent my name. Ghetto to Hills, Hills to cross country, cross country returning to alpha. Omega bleeding,

 

political skies, religion begging its premise, despite, its longevity. Rooms are filled with hopes, growing into visions, smoke filled clouds with voice; acorn stubborn, tulip yellow,

 

mighty as it becomes ignorance, the fastest chase cheetahs. Women know indemnity. The prose knows its disconnection. And poetry could taste sweeter. Most present venom,

 

lizard traipsing deserts, feeling churning into a rainstorm; stereo white noise, scorpion agitation, grasshoppers and mice … so tell me the truths, as living solid asphalt, to have

 

laughed at God; a mind full of cobras, going through fatal thoughts, chasing tails, looking to become masters, palms filled with dust.    

Human Chase

 

Barriers to solace—sore machination—wisdom has hatchets; morbid joys, hankering soul, gifted at agitating spirits. Social outcasts, an entire culture, to have become mystery—those roses bled, excited over possibly hurting—the myth of its cello; unequal skies, flushed like a heart attack, to whisper to self, “I’ve redeemed silence.” Sorrows

 

become joyful, happiness has strength, careful to at least notice perceptibility; seasons of nonchalance, needing to cleanse soul, annoyed science is fragile. In its chase, it proved a deficit. Losing to find numen, to realize art, to make portraits of esoteria. Deep anticipation, a spirit to her life, her child, her spouse … with purpose of dreams, an

 

actress and audience, knees to floor, palms to rug, screams echoing throughout the pathways; to hate is difficult, it may come seemingly, as it rots in pith a gut. Those scars, such dear sanctuary, a shelter in clouds, reading social passions; to love with malice, to harm and feel unrequited, with fierce ferocity chasing the gates.  

Over 25 Years of Friendship & Love

 

… and loving you the excitement, daring to suggest life, math seeming simplistic; an air of innocence, making fantasy complete, to have died those years—faced by experience; a man to his leisure, a hobby to his brains, your justice making its acclaim …. Many mistakes, never a closer friend, to have wilderness with steaks; a fair pain, such deficit, negating existence, further, closer to dying in arms; blood blue excellence, never so complete, with nature wreaking its havoc … to varnish perfection, paid partially, fullness coming with time … by summation, by voice, to adore pieces and parts—as they resurrect, forming wholeness. Dewdrop passions, ours so precious, to need in its torture; scented in jasmine, jasper eyes, never jejune—a must for the unique. Haunted by airs, inheriting favor, to have loved unbeknownst to circumstances. Many would destroy us, just for sport, it seems so inordinate. Sweet victory of character, a true essence, a dear excellence, to have lived, to have conquered, to feel reborn! Minds tinkle. Hearts flutter. Faces change. With deepness seeming irrevocable, at ease with treasures, fuel aflame!   

Weaving The Picture

 

Namaste.

By haunt over tulips, most petals are unreal.

Great wilderness, piecing contours, made more naïve.

The winning of decency, despite tsunamis, an art by

Its whelming principle.

Tender amore. Famished hearts. Love would die

Before surrendering.

Sweet fiber, treasured fabric, everything rearranged

Once it reaches richness.

 

Wrapped in seaweed, palming identity, with Love

On edge. To have perished those eyes, An entire life

Realigned,

Chasing the deer island, roaming those gates, with

Fury in cups.

 

Let it be what I can’t utter.

Let pain be morphed into radiance.

One mile to the finale.

One last block to accomplish the goal.

Aesthetic Blackness

 

Aesthetic blackness—longer hopes, requiem passions, to have relinquished mind, body & soul; most begun in poverty, triumph & damages, required to have wings; born in aqua grays, deep cacophonies, starkness of nakedness, naïve & young, by sin of those walking deserts. Yokes & bondage—success & alienation, demands bred of arts; regality of souls, trespassed in spirit, reborn, the diaspora, sewn into gallicas, hibiscus, mourning elders as they pass. Re-coping. Intimate with noodles. Rinsing sodium. Aesthetic blackness, many shades, one color—rivers, portraits, spirituals. A student of the living, watching scholars of the cultures, seduced by myriad shadows: biblic or secular, fighting to persist, kneeling metaphorically, figuratively, literally—mind curriculum, soul chalkboards, acrobatic mysticism. Imaginative excellence, indifference, with hearts touched & hushing lights.    

Clawing Webs, Clamping Claw

 

consider each mystery, whelming arts, either a blessing or a curse, hearts magnified; core overload, darting intensely, a spirit nurtures its breath. home is where souls dwell. emotion and yoga, intellect and religion, color and transgression. one becomes interested, some smitten, others disruptive, enchanted, realizing direction. seven. three. five and four. many more upon nine, as it returns to itself. not much on numerology, nevertheless, more into numbers, analyzing how souls become detached—from sentimentality, present in arts, musing upon tropic birds—moved, nonetheless, where it requires sentimentality, along lines of curiosity—love seeming an umbrella expression; within a few meters to have smelled life, sky pirates, cloud mud, swooping as it strikes—oh feral being, to have undermined intellect, facing body ink. inner government determines spikes, energy with feet and legs running through hearts. sublime amore, armor outside, interior distressed, a mind made for witnessing; paradoxical utopia, beginning with loathing, ending in admiration—a palm filled with lamenting, an ankle with wheezing, aside kadupul petals. confusion. mockingbirds. iridescent nature—upon bluegrass wilderness.    

Gouging Dark Forest

 

Ghosts are in roses, tulips smile, desert was once glory, art has history in bone, marrow, flesh. Poetry would die, save for souls, so genteel when repaired; an outflow of spirit, she looks tired, traipsing walls, forbidden, breaking freedoms—assuming it hurts, fullness freezing, musing upon Jebusite eyes—sure to lose capacity, holding to probability, framed in excellence—certain lure, a grimace upon contact, too much disagreement—explaining every nook, so skeptic, affixed to maxims, wheezing—it craves—deep blue seas. Alike to limbo, gothic fairs, the land is spoken for—with souls satiated, fixated, pores grieving, to adore what slips away—to have heaven, to greet hell, to love like foul winds. So grand a nympho, so desperate to become … so close to needing nothing …. The prowl is crowded, wrestling for the helm, the ship is in disarray; to ask a blacksnake the time of space, to laugh for reason at an answer, where most of life is mute on answers; hypocenter focus, unnerved or fragile, her eyes would dig for recollection. The arc is fluid, too friendly, we desire raw honesty, even to reject its intensity—to live a little, to hurt like Zeus, to adore like Athena: we sound imperfect; we live a lie, as disaffected souls; so many casual pitfalls!

Neglect & Silence

 

Bereft of spawning, cleaving to webs, begging not to become lunch; calling skies, dialing gods, worrying divinity is human—sleeper sharks, intense underbellies, opalescent attraction—to have

croaked in pains, one kiss to live, bereft of spawning.

The gap between us, by its backfire, a soul needs an airbag, by chance to survive: adoring sight seen, asking for a nimbus, confining Love to chains.

Torque and horsepower, cylinders and passion, to again give mercy, reading life, its novel, broken intimacy, chafe inside.

Animals of the region, many marionettes, paying homage to the greatest fantoccini—designed, Byzantine, listening to stars, eating sunshine, bathing in the moon.

Most would perish, kneeling at a parish, defined by dear absence—so naïve at moments.

To reclaim needing art, the nexus is human, by reflection to again giving mercy; aching where she sings, fashioning the epistemic, debating deontology—as a soul thinks, as a soul becomes, much a war inside, forbidding the deep neglect.

Griping Against Irony

 

Confined to a halo, hellish controversy, wishing sin were probable. An angelic creature, musical omens, to break with chastity.

I have chased winds, opened hooks, forbidden the great demon; accustomed as it fails, rubescent remedies, sullen and softer screams.

I have danced wilderness, eating a woman’s epiphany, gathered in the woods.

Wistful love, unhappy closure, surrounded by deserts—faced with harshness … the battle cry, trumpets inside, the whole time resting, a world breaking freedom;

condition by its asphalt, surface woes and longer letters, at days with a soul in spirit.

            Knowing consciousness, sensing her waltzing, treasury and ballet … as it lives, used, in order to again give life.

Opal roses, plumbness, benthic seas—if to understand what drives humanity.

Confined in a halo, made perfect, searching out desecration—fable or thief, mortar guts, facing music, until it sounds out.

I have ignored the night, piano’d the days, violin and cello, evenings seeming cruel. To have adored

the chaos, if two come closer, reality isn’t a cheesecake.  

Love TKO

 

It seemed easy enough: a soul seeks what it adores. So fair the fight, so wrong the silence. If changing continents, she’d give a dream. Taking control, a myth, a damn good one, actually, quite popular. I was with paint and brush, pencil and pen, silence and voice. I would enter a dream, so easy to love, dependent on states of art. Needing brushwork. Asking for essence. To desire so much from a stranger—if but to feel whole again. The stranded nights, abusing daylight, needing darkness—it sounds so aloof. Thinking back over my tears, losing too often, it requires a fine balance: a little of each, daily sullen, daily with a sense of joy. To give, to hope, to envision. Often, and more, to sacrifice, to surrender, with onlookers falling into its rhythm. Certain to languish, seated like lemurs, just hanging from the trees of existence; too refrained to have elation, so desperate to have elation, if Love warrants the invisible.       

I Wish Love Was Simple!

 

I wish love was simple—complex life, guitars, winds, putting pain first; hurting to prove my point, to become felt in its moment, adrift at times, reaching for sociality and chimes. Rethinking love, its maxims, its ultimate dedication—as flown into injustice, asking dependencies, with love facing itself; asking forbidden messages, made desperate in song, thetic in design, love becomes its antithesis; it flames with action, it dines with fury, it claims what it desires, never to own what it loves; to adore skies, to freefall into arms, most intolerant passion; aching to exist, to become ontology, cosmic, existential, with much waiting in deserts—fire of importance, aborted from love, half way deceased. I wish love was simple—complex stars, too far away, if to need a thought, to be in tears, hoping it’s felt, one dear at manipulation, thus, uneasy; so blind, so complicated, needy, if to dream of a perfect anxiety.    

What Is Permanent, Against Anything, Love?

 

Losing was pivotal, redesigning perception, gripping daylight, forfeiting redundancy, at art made personal. I would adore privilege, patient to persevere, so adroit, at agency—so great its loss; filthy cleanness, most appropriate to itself, asking through its war—angelic sacrifice, aged sullenness, certain to melt in compassion—trying to hold strength. Aesthetic, so human. Pain, so glamourous. Bumps, miseries, a dirty desert: clumps of traits, treasures in terrors, languishing over love.

A man has so much, looking for more, a woman is likewise; so designed to need, yearn, glisten, glossy, action in airs, music, mire, life and indecency.

            It takes control of men. It worries women. It seems chaotic unto itself.

            By fret of its dynasty, decided as dreaded, while it becomes dormant—another sadness.

            So great an aura—an eagle with falcon eyes, physicality seems important, but a shallow soul.

            Certain to adore again, dispelling ideals, to have cared unto hurting.   

Admiring a Ghost

 

 

To live for ideals the fever of breathing, baffled by you. It was myth, it was exciting—a woman, her dreams, a sin, its whisper. Every mystery recorded, every miracle made scientific, privacy made a vision, for a time being; so close it hurts, a rose for the funeral, to ache over truths—so furious over beauty, to become aloof, to live a private life. I was walking, it dawned on me, you will remain a dove, a man’s earnest, if to possess something holy—as near as it comes, too far to reach, putting effort into invisibility. The lines are weary, imagination becomes a rival, must learn not to think. Yes, a mystery, as tyranny rages forth, the curse of adoring you. Keeping silent on this vein, watching sheer disappointment; to have favor in it disappears, framed in essence, so distinct & clear. It will never be you, so settled into life, with a muse or two to keep balance.

Wings & Grackles

 

Too long between measures—gallicas weeping, petals wheezing. It was wrong to praise you, sight unseen, a steady glance, to know a human, to suggest pain, pleasure, advice, darkness. We might be without—souls freezing, to sense survival, instead of affection. A soul to its first fire, a flame to its flicker, trying to stabilize interior—the way you neglect yourself, makes for holiness. I was free in worship. You felt me as naïve. The plum excitement in those curtains—each pleat, so nebulous, too concerned, over one nonchalant. It can’t be living—to need with desperation, to retreat and need nothing. I try to refocus you, like a child grapples with math, seized with ambivalence, I thought you incredible. Sheer disappointment—as bending waves, sudden into a blizzard; the anxiety of its kiss, those whispering names, assumed it was never to escape.  

He Says Nothing!

 

I was sold a dream, immortality in the balance, to believe in you, to dance in your culture, so much an issue, so deep a loss, eating life, birds at his shoulders, songs in his waves. Immune to it, some scream, abandoned to it, a million-man march. To see a seed having joys, to feel obligated, as to dispel the child’s faith. Giving him nothing, just robbing him, to wonder why he becomes an atheist. And Love was flying, waltzing, traipsing immortality. What was left—bags of profanity, secular musicians? It will outlast itself; it will die in itself; it will mean more thrown away from itself. Slow insistence, a man should go mad, when blind to motives—and Art feels justified—just because! So unreal, such a myth, and a life was dedicated to the uneasiness, that culture, this person, the study of itself, in reflection to the genius. Thirsty! Put into a style. An old attic inside, a conundrum inside, Art knows her name. Swift at it. Lost in it. Nothing means more in it. So noetic, a zoetic life, couldn’t fathom, had to try, asked a question, to imagine what it looks like: disregard, to sense beauty, asking for a passage, ignoring its liberty, cleaving to its escape. “He says nothing!”      

Impossible Status

 

By measure by aesthetic, some arts are fancy—loving at a miracle, speaking to old sentience, a picture in mind, never an answer—waves, supposed ventriloquists, a man paid dues for immortality; met at a club, frenzy designed, revenue and wings—too much spending. I knew majesty. Life was simple. Too much thinking, and Love said it never could be. Most claiming fantastic, stuck in feelings, framed by science—a principle, a higher ranking, southern gold, California wicks—so cold on it. One will interrupt you—seeing determination—angered, or some emotion, bled dry, trying to get it back, a great deal of oxygen; and Art was bold, Love was considered, most labelled esoteria, asking for mercy; some stereotype, generating affection, like a soul racing itself. By admission, to dig deeper, to permit perception, to go with sequences.