It comes with a price, diamonds in brains, livid in a
daze.
The deathbed polygraph—to see what prevails.
Laying there, close to departing, begging for
entrance.
What is believed?
Oh mighty Filmmaker, segue to eternity, exit into
hells.
Many more unloved, surmising, filled & fraught by
iniquity; filthy palms, forgiven, like a dam miracle.
To walk with self, to know dirty crevices, to try to
make peace with hands—their journey, their mechanics, a bloody death.
To ask for repairs, to need to feel erased, longing
for maturity.
Like dying was good, like living was bad, what else do
we have?
If it was nonchalance, did it hurt?
Surreal battles, fighting a damn ghost, what in gods
is in us?
Loving is never a mistake, saying benthic things,
smothered by skies;
head monopoly, gifts made too subtle, like Jesus is on
radar.
A fretted silence, a freezing gut, hydrated dryness.
In feeling Love, it was hatred for Love, with nothing
more than freedom to draw from: pure illusion.
Nomadic spirits, traveling curses, looking at day
become nightfall.
To take it back to cymbals, tambourines, tribal
discussion: smokestacks, walking coals, spears through flesh—
to live it at it edges, to cliff ride, at a ghost town:
praying for good health, to live it freely, rather
pray for clarity of thought.
Virtue in a demon, omens in angelica, it’s funny how
scripture tells a story.
And back at it, early morning greetings, a voice in
dice, a female essence—terrified of living, like dreading science, filmed in
absence.
