A man
becomes ink or paint while bleach is taken to his concrete; such sweet serenade
or no one is listening or some need just one love; this fragrance on low this
frequency on high while looking at you becomes my reason; the tempo is melodic
the perfume is erotic where living in you has been so loyal; this behavioral
concern, as the more given, the greater received—to palm timbre or to mangle a
haiku while a nine-year-old wrote a perfect ballad; these signs we sense this
elephant so tipsy or this caiman alcoholic; to become a motif where loving is
respecting while we breach our insanity; but a loud symphony where physiology
churns if but one last cup of coffee.
The time
was evening where I watched closely and behavior betrayed its owner; sore into
a prelude so obvious we see while carrying on, nonetheless; it was anger before
grief, or disgust before humility, with something we confront the rest of our
days; this personality element, this aura but spatial, where deep regret
changes its palms; to chase while vomiting to upchuck a lung whereafter a man
slammed a pint of escapes; (don’t pity the soul, just behave accordingly, while
something pinches his inner navel).
I don’t
know enough, but a countenance speaks maturity, wherefore, I assert we might be
happy.
I read
a requiem I heard it in penalties I rehearsed it during penance; I confessed
but was I forgiven—it appears so mentally.
It feels
so abstract as a man that can’t give where we wonder about what sustains love;
is it sexual or therapy of unsustainable fervor; is it money or promise or a
need for mother or father; two people become close-knit, they acquire habits,
they walk away with each other.
Are there
immortal parts to love? Something like a quintet? Are the members dying to sing
you?
I loved
early. I received something its picture. But I have become unusual. (the evaluation
while tiptoeing cliffs or arranged as one that might distribute disdain; our
careful positions our restudied responses while one might regret the signal
they sent; such opus involvement while unaware where one has become an integral
property.) I have not loved you. I have an abstract portrait. It has
spirit-life. It feels energies. I seclude and sip.
Never
for closure this sullen medallion.
Never
for eyes speaking, I shall not!
And never a glass
that fractures asphalt. but adored
as pure sugarcane or a trillion dollar sugar-apple; for a poet is miracle-fruit,
a soul distressed by realities, wherefore, those cigarette cartons; by ashes
piled by color, by breadfruit, by scarlet insanity; to portrait softly or to
die in conversation abiding in this search for creativity; a flower as a
blanket, a sign centuries sung, or a soul that happened to seize something
crucial. To
need
remorse or to watch those kangaroos while sunken so freely it aches.
