Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Crappy Chats

I can’t remember subtle, at evenings worshiping, Subtle, by means alive this subtle atmosphere: our Pakistan Brides, this curious creature, and this echoed profanity: moreover, a curse, gazing into beauty, or laughing for far so immature: this needy creation, this independent creation, where a man feels awkward: our brains to rescues, as feeling secure, where Love is quite to wavering: this missed ship, this crying igloo, or days to hating our guts: thereto, this missing balloon, this wailing kettle, this glorious summer: at angry fingers, or tips brewing vodka, or memories where Love was quite indecent: those road beetles, those deep abrasions, this similarity to longevity: our selfish replies, our needs for attention, as centered this Asian furniture: or laughing with Love, this eternal stingray, this precious, soft material: as swollen eyes, and pints of cognac, or nights wrestling for a decent climax: this future Washington, our skin-tight deaths, or German fevers—to arrive at time, or to resist for success, while tugged for yanked crying into ceilings.     I centipede venom, I dance like July, this man taken by belly chanters: that whelmed century, this revolving pistol, those pages of energy: to hit, destroy, and earthquake a soul: this up for lights, this down for darkness, to realize souls are watching: this provocative lizard, those hind legs, while nibbling poison grass: if but to live, or furious at flights, to have, possess, and keep through existence: our crazy ideals, this winning youth, or minds meeting at tables: to churn worlds, our cubs grinning, our souls at thoughts: that beautiful this, that glorious that, or trials to come: if but to flourish, this flippant morality, or guts striving for indecencies.     Such salty lakes, those elegant lies, this soul chugged by strangers: to arouse a feeling, to die those rivers, as dressing his ocean: that potent loudness, this thrust for deaths, or passing upon a lively birth: at tales laughing, at privacies crying, while treacherous a notch repenting: this world to songs, this ant to battles, this cactus as metaphorical: where Love is grimaced, or tending to perish, where two walk separately: this crucial junction, this daily ritual, this treasure passing upon train-wrecks.

I visit psychoses, this eloquent language, this mis-pursued psyche: as both to rhine(s), or both to curses, while avoiding our brains: this dead man, this living soul, to adventure taboo crevices: those cultic islands, this gin with wine, this far too glorious damsel: our weeks at passion, to come to reality, as Love retreats into exospheres: those dying pleasures, those fond memories, to arise an enemy of his feelings: this chiseled element, this intoxicating axiom, or this failed fantasy: where less is more, as potent as chronic, as purple as Cush: that maniac gaze, those maniac inducements, where one meets us at our gates: this sickly feature, as retrieved by psychiatrists, where we sense this deep contradiction: or oxymoron(s), or deep resistance, as crushed by dynamic talents: (this friend in private, this warrior at public life, while desperate to cocoons: those hazel-brown pears, those deep intoxications, or this world so new to old souls: this prehistoric link, this village of inclinations, or this hard won singularityJ): where souls become normal, this rich postulate, or minds become wholeness—this tender delicacy, those years at brain-wars, or this faint ability to bring features under submission: an element to wildness, for this threshold lingers, where one can be tampered with: those genius souls, cutting at subliminals, while educating this inner receiver: our trenchant successes, our brandies with ice-cubes, our women as faraway believers: this chant to energies, this wealth within Jews, or eyes to Australians while re-gifting our sentiments: this London Cry, those Dutch Ambassadors, this Mystic Unreality: while agonies grow limbs, to induce this split, while two walk this valid vex: to die as losing, to lose as winning, where features train in acceptance of being received.

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...