Sunday, May 31, 2020

Tart Tears, Tragic Ecstasy


sweet & sour vinegar such byzantine religion whereby a man might panic. such limits in us our vows crooked where he never meant his mind. a pack atop the dashboard a hat he can’t wear or a coat which fits others. by dear fantoccini or strings absent our fauna zeitgeist! those misty pebbles those mental air bags while love would backfire. our sharp curves a boisterous woman or a mini-manic—such mantis intentions so pulled by a newcomer while this happens in many schools. compassionate horsepower or magical torque while a man tries in vain. by gaps in visions by rectangles in feelings or triangles in fire—our wretched mistrusts our furious flavors while it meant so much those passing cries. or an outsider’s novel the pure frustration as alive but fragile—our oxygen our creek-caves our demons into essence where so many are scandalous; but true fever as cursed fever such chaos or nakedness or beauty. by emotions, those mélange emotions while touching seems so determined. by serpent lust to imagine a garden while naked or naïve such soft-spoken obedience. so much more the autobiography the war those white dresses—if alone or relieved while murder to brains or occupation. by soul fitting jeans to have like, damn it hurts, or tender the music which drew blood: those evidence-sheets those tidal-wave screams while man humbled by mistake—this creature so adored into science while treated like the helpmeet. if to strew myself into sky redemption while a man must turnoff the cartoons. an interior journal so fond of paradise while a man deceives his existential: an-other-witness, or Frida’s cousin, to become an unspoken policy. we refuse to discuss it. where absence means innocence. while two are heavy at making this a living. the emptiness, the lesbian’s war cry, the homosexual’s identity. such accidents as to outline futures where a daughter made it deliberate. to paint what we see. by such aggressive cinemas. where targets are unaware. our skeletons reaping, the gatekeeper screeching, where four generations were throttled by milestones.      

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...