That flutter as it reaches making for esoteria the lie
of my castle.
It would be death, bass blasting, at angst and dreams,
facing miracles, loving to become ground zero, a managed disaster, a gut
bleeding, a liver aching, trying to meet Jesus. I felt that, what in death to
give, why interest in nothing, the blast inside, a heartbeat, those wings, as
God would understand, un-fathom, letting desire be its longevity. I ask a question, if mainly for paranoia,
with tar to feathers, blessed to resist, in depth the garbage, to disclaim
anxiety, to love in spite of self, to hate something in graves—What has become
of rhythm and blues? I listen to whispers, I laugh in private, I give a
blessing to animals, the cave of it all, those angered in adolescence, the
mother I wished for, the father I never met, those dreams in disguise, asking
questions, laughing with spirits, I know the depth, I live the aftermath, I can’t
explain it! I remember one knew—I felt sadness the silence, to feel ashamed, to
blame self, in life, one should never lose sanity. Warhol art. Tetras bleeding.
If souls came in darts—spotting blues, more a fever, a man in a soul, a son in
lose, math in its remembrance. Can’t fight it. I blend into it. Like having a
voice, if it yearns, long lasting, singsong, as never understood; too complex,
too forbidden, to find one is a miracle. A bit into dynasties, asking for
freedoms, most never fathom the love for ink.
