We use to love life, before that fatal cry, as to endure
life; this chiseled feeling—our emotions in blood—our cage screaming murder. I
love it that feeling, as to kill for mercy—those orders in Scripture; of
course, to perish, that thought of bleating, that cover of skin. The demons are
grieving, scraping at grottoes, to excavate a human slave. I’m night to death,
featured in her memoirs, this flavored secret. I’m lost this daze, a cub at
sea, thrusting the pedals of Impalas; for oh the reefer, and oh the sex, sitting
at a bridge, afraid; for love was mastery, as the hell with feelings, and soon
a high five…so cultured with breath, as freaked and dying, this grave to talk
to Jesus!...only to want it, this runaway love, as grounded in gothic tears:
this vague approach; this midnight sore; this favor he couldn’t win. I’m
digging flesh, nails filled with blood, hiking through eczema; for years have
cried, the death of this love, rekindled in a verse. Oh the curses, as dripping
in dye, the color of his bread; this frantic human, while caged in terror—as to
thrust one last birth. I curse us this love, a shoebox of symbols, a mirror
claiming vengeance. Let it be gentle, this inner purging, as fortified with
faces; that running heaven, as called to mingle, at lengths from the token’s
goal. We spin through grays, centered in black and whites, rushing to outrun
ourselves. The earth is teary, for the sight of love, a lonely bastard; to tap
the keys, this falling mirror, bleeding laughter. I’m dead alive, a product of
music, an old desperado; for hell was perfect, this outward escape, where
heaven was a dream; this type of fiction, as real as breath, manipulated by
souls. I long the mission, eyes heavy in splinters, a dancing fool.
