Saturday, May 9, 2020

Maddening Violins Un-fantasy


to understand wrenching trauma or cursed to walk it off where agony is filthy-beauty. our alabaster aches while love was temporal our sandstone minds; to have hurt as entrĂ©e to know heart-mutiny while so alive it becomes tender pendants. those sapphire chimneys so alert while blasted if but to find elegance. the futility of anguish the wisdom so curt or fruits filled with worms. by fire-rock to hate or dislike a son, where he was bent on a rainbow. those fields by loquats those terrors early a.m. to see with God’s vision a man beating mother dizzy. such deep resilience or turkey-based resentments where jewelry flung beneath couch or table: doors losing hinges, bleach failing it society, while Windex would but buffer the violence. oh to take this space or to rekindle beauty while I would hate to lose my dominion. those emerald tears. those acrylic scars. or night owl sensories. but a necklace as concealed or revealed to disappear while the liar looked like fabrication. or to overlook anything, in order to feel solace, while a meal might be its surrendering.  by double or triple pain. by trenchant voice, such as dear guts, while I chased for treacheries! but a locket but a tender excuse while nothing was nailed down. such deep cadence such intoxicated fireflies while I noticed nothing in there. golden child, young furious child, while screaming out some stranger’s name. our torn concrete as it would melt to arrive like dying in the ER. what by forgiveness, as to hamper my cause, but usually it means more forgiveness. indeed, to point out differences, a man proclaiming his goodness, without a viable witness in the room. to proclaim something innocent, where it couldn’t subsist, for one has been deemed as reprobate. if it proves truth, we must change our interior, while it’s easier to hold to untruths. such a precise world, such raw candescence, while loving me means acknowledging those wounds: such dripping lesions, such dear disgust, that if one knew they would spit in our faces; such deep wretchedness such filth and mud where mother might make it seem so shallow.      

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...