Friday, January 17, 2020

We All Have the Secret Formula


into wilderness those cities bound by incredibility.

those rings into science
while unlocked and
withered losing keys.

to pet a poodle or to shoo a feeling where I need for mother’s perfection.

this watchful atmosphere so distrusting of our mirrors where watching others is pure deflection:

to unlace emotion or aglet those loose ends if but to love accordingly; this battle we undertake while working with our gifts, indeed, wrestling with our demons; so pictured precisely at this endless parade while wildness makes something alert; those spirit-eyes this soul-felt allergy or running from some substance; abused and dismissed, provoked and dismissed, even disrespected and dismissed.

the man has a problem upon a silent spectrum where listening is a craft.

I remember to tie shoes or to murmur a prayer those few rituals. I remember to feel something while forking pain where it only becomes manageable. and I remember those stages, in which we see it does not change, while becoming complaisant or uneasy. this gift they give us this sulfuric love while we behave afraid to further our abandonment. there should be a shop, especially for us, that we must attend prior to having children. —for baggage is filthy, where we see in parts, but it becomes full circle at inopportune moments: a furious fire an incredible upsurge as so dejected in dire desperation for control.

at times I see you, this irritated aggravation, so filled with everyone’s screams; so close it hurts or so accepting it becomes contradiction while needing a full proof philosophy; such an eclectic existence such pulling or tugging where dragons often enter our faces; so deep into others so alarmed by too much silence while chatter makes for comforts; this irregular portrait, what the camera hides, while intimate with make-believe.

we listen to our pain but our filters are partial where desire takes over actualities; a man might save his world, even win a Nobel Prize, while he can’t utter ten words to his condition. we live according to rules, but something we consider normal, might appall or aghast others.    

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...