The tick-tock to it; garbs on gates: dear Father, bless the tunics! We chewed sunlight. We begged Jesus. We ate poverty. I loved as best as felt. The orangeness of interior. Wrapped in seaweeds, aching marshweed, we seem to live for something static. I was listening to an anthem, swayed in my mind, wondering those tasteless and mawkish screams. Like being dehaired, stuffed by life, sawed asunder—the pain ain’t much, the losses are intense, rather skip it, rather exist it, rather … too much of that! I was reading an anonymous prose. It turned into corners, bent souls, elaborated on ambiguity. And the author wanted nothing. Maybe this is much to receive. I hear sunshine moaning. I realize we push hard against imperfection, life is dying, it’s a rule to existence. The demon eyed spirits; approaching at daybreak, wondering about our beliefs. There must be a theology of ambiguity—vagueness seems indicative of harrowing breaths … the gut wheezing, most are disconnected from their struggle, estranged, like a fleeting ass dream. The soul was examined, everyone was aghast, trying to make meaning of this … we search for the organic, as it flows, taunted at times, threshed at each step. To sit language down, to ask its expression, to adore a one-to-one correlation.
