Saturday, September 15, 2018

Bacon Jerky


I dance with grace, alive as affected, adrift as ruined—this admiration, this bleeding sky-clave, or graves inverted and finding life: this guzzling machine, this grown ass winner, those purple vines: as dying for creative, or winking for demonic, to cut a bitten bottom lip: this remark as stolen, this gut as unfolding, or laundry too thick for soaking: this man ruined, this love as forbidden, this lethal ass gun fair: thither, our embrace, this afterlife mischief, to finally orgasm as one destined to pass forward: our curses laughing, this bottle in mourning, this woman at her business—as rarely a thought, or distant a feeling, to find Love eating a salad: our deep cuts, this liquid crack, or tales to this winning machine: as lost and gunning, fleeing into deserts, and arguing with this camel: those acting vices, this ingested ecstasy, at moons laughing at gore: this rude suggestion, that wise uncle, as filming with herpes.     I died in mother, I freedom’d in thoughts, but cold to deaths figuring my father: this aloof person, this pimp in screams, that rubric uneasiness: this funny channel, this harmful skit, or our president sober: this fool for thoughts, this crane for deliverance, or tales broken for wholeness: this growing infection, this spread through cultures, or days to feeling proud: as born for destruction, committed for condemnation, while adoring our persecutor: this invisible entity, this invisible us, this filleted miracle: (to adore this warmth, this bright-eyed daughter, as losing this slanted war: to feel with deaths, to drift with organs, as intoxicating our livers: this poker game, this global herpes, this meal with passions: to cut again, to lose as grown, while gripping to truths): that mobile winning, this deep stress-box, or this Danish observer: indeed, a bit tipsy, indeed, a bit Irish: this black moon, this deadly creature, as protected by active grandparents: as never to retreat, because tension war is trifling, and gut fury is righteous: this short grave, this black horizon, or pictures distorted.         

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...