Saturday, July 20, 2019

Moonshine Countries


…sewn into liquor, abused for sanctified, while wretched pain is required: fleece and sheep, goats and redemption, at space, closeness, and reservoir: reading for condemned, at Pa and wines, at mother a bit refrained: for death is gentle, and death is rough, while death is required: this faith event, at transmigration, while cursed with scented memories: as lost for broken, or captured for seasons, at bars, internal prisons, and chow passages: so rebuked in you, so out to lunch for you, while expressing a bit too late for you: for Love is agony, and Love as anguish, and Love is pardoned: at muscular calves, at stronger legs, attempting to subjugate sexually: this fair mistake, this lake of desires, this ocean of flames: to die with you, to resurrect with you, as settled to feel disgusts for you: sped for reamed, accursed for blessed, while one must insist upon the other: at gifts for passion, or icy cold shivers, at trembles and curtesy: so enlove, where Love straggles, while we hold to promises: this field of losers, this vest of winners, three days in: so elaborate, after six sips, and so emphatic: our sofa madness, our liquid arts, so infused, so rebuked, at such an academic planet: our dying feelings, our selfish altruism, while sipping into melancholia: so refused, or so abused, while culprits are eating dinner: a slight mishap, a slight destruction, or something of little importance: to need repentance, for some are human, as we believe in an ultimate provider: to be as David, as pleading God, if but to curse a family’s genealogy: so gray at havens, so infused by morals, but lacking concrete rudiments: those blue blazers, those remote controls, as so enlove and without, it starts to trefoil: as born to silence, so abused by silence, while silence has become a sacred path: so sewn, so rejected, where a precious fire burned a precious loser: if but to die, as but to exist, at fury, flame, and fruit passion: so enlove, so abstract, while so forbidden Jesus as a second coming: at familiarity, at breath-recognition, if but with pain, agonies, and success: this foreign belief, this foreign picture, at foreign cries: a class of drinkers, a brain filled with heathens, if but to separate art from real life: spent and guzzling, redeemed and unsatisfied, at war, cadence, and defeat: so brown those days, so white those brains, while history becomes ghetto extensions: a phone call, answered by guts, while a gallbladder left her message: so fueled, as overthought, frizzy and black, nappy and kinks: so blue his shivers, so burgundy her pride, at livers and throats, a bit restarted in time…. 

Love was mean, and Love was mental, and I fell for Love: so terrified, at China Black, while liquified: an interior chase, a wretched moon, while some love to adore others: screaming in brains, relaxed in detriments, at puzzles for adult losers: so baffled, so addled, at adders and cobras and geese: so afflicted in you, so close to dying in you, while realizing our futures tread subtle paths: nibbling alligator, aflame a crocodile, at caiman genetics: so dinosaur, so resurrected, so free searching for serfdom: at low tempo, at high temples, a bit forgetful staring at dimples: a black blue feeling, at fuchsia embarrassment, where Love attempted to try sulfur: at deep mistreatment, to rev an engine, while anger fell enlove: to know deaths, to resist deaths, while so underrated one fraught life for deaths: those casual mistakes, this inherited mistake, while re-conversing with Wisdom: to ask intimacies, to cry purple grains, to re-root, die, and inflate: our cultural habits, such a-cultural aggravation, where tombs speak plain riddles: at thrown frustration, to hit hearts, such reverberation: as known for ruined, as cursed for sainted, while Satan took a second glance at prayer-life: our curious fire, our remorseful arcs, at fury, freelance, and family: such mustard and murmur, such ketchup and deliverance, while pudding has become quite intractable: so senseless, or so evolved, while slang is evident in Iceberg: those musical letters, those rhythmical fetters, at curse, life, and renewed deaths.

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...