Thinking in beige, thunder earlobes, voiced back,
radical liars, acting misunderstood. The misconception, dear magnificence,
missing styles, palatial antiques, flesh made purple. If reason determines
magic, catbirds in melody, deeper anxieties. Uncontrolled by instincts, managed
by an inner compass, the world looks misidentified; as casual creators, cursing
in a dungeon, Love, too much to depend upon. Many a nightmare, made terrific,
abandoned to dying to live. The halcyon is green unto a landscape, the gorilla
in its habitat. One last time becomes language, a dear fib, fabulous fiber, so
salacious, built like an amazon. Only Africa. Only India. Only Australia. Only
primitives feeling awful, trying at a smile, one noticed, asked for permission,
and denied herself. Confusing aesthetics. Sanity is delicate entity. Mental
blues, spirit pianos, a soul is a guitar. So feigned. So precise. Loving seems
to have rules, chaos, stability in its instability. To keep interests—along an
ocean shore, weeds, kale, frowning, glued to a horizon, never admitted we heard
her name. Thinking in beige, thunder by drums, unvoiced, unradical, feeling
understood.
Especially the way we would if dining
was legal the art as designed such cultural pains. We need not discuss the
moon, need not ask of fires, need not play pretend—need not the needs of the
flame. I speak as naïve—a shallow grave, soil and palms, laughs under
depression, inverted, so great the meditation. It makes what it determines for
souls sensing spirit, so deep so quickly, so deep into the insanity, as
everything appears as unreal; trying to try not, always a little trying. It wasn’t
meant to outshine itself; it wasn’t meant to be noticed; it was meant to
undergo, misperceive and go into madness. The one we hate. Be it true or false.
Souls at passionate mazes. Thinking in beige.
