Tuesday, May 26, 2020

Primitive Gene Pool


those mounts those social ribbons while I desire freedom. its infinity its treasury if but to understand its portraits. to listen to you to need you while so stubborn as to reject you. so much love so much convenience or attuned to something unhealthy. by condition where he needs affliction if but wings to his galaxy. but a liar those years but inconvenience those welts by upsurge or downpour. our medic canyons our trailed valleys our psalms or palm-prints. a modern rose a primitive jamesia while caves connect to dungeons or tombs or dreams where one sits evaluating a man’s guillotine. his head near mutts such flea-bitten mongrels while a mongoose happens upon a diamond. our rugosa minds or dear tyranny while a man must endure a runaway hunch. I would dare those skies such words in his screams where his face has become offensive. so many floors such wars to quench while told a soul must desire peacekeeping. those gate-reapers those fenced magnolias while a trail shows a deep need for dejection: the gutter baby those alcoholic infants to see the dear one trembling from withdrawals. so many before those seams such dying to arise where no one gave much credit. a driven discontentment a prejudged assessment where a man is designated his dreams. the polyantha gimmick those mourning seasons or so disenchanted one can’t obtain a positive review. to adore like absent to pursue like losing where it seemed so interesting—those rattles in shrubberies those webs in houses or those trapdoors in offices. by tender raspberries by relic emotions or primitive eyes where one is caiman or dinosaur such raw energies—those women so unconfessed or such deep damaging bodies while a man suffers his greatest combustion. (if minds grew marigolds or tummies knew facts as one driven into extinction!) looking to sprout or touch the black science at one too explicit for random miseries. too suffused to silence too much dusk to sky those wild hibiscuses. so held by roots or fires our hands bleeding ink—the gut’s reign the death’s canopy while truth is so disgusting!                    

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...