Saturday, May 30, 2020

Twigs & Roses & Psyches


one prunes twigs, another, roses, or another, psyches. breakfast becomes murder, such middle graves, by purity in something crooked. frantic readings at impiety where one becomes a great inveigler. our beautiful miseries our kernels in devastation while caged an adolescent sung his terrors. we see a dear fight if born with love or here’s to triumph! so suppressed or digging trenches while a woman buried honesty. courtroom legacies as so much innocence while we feel unclean. it never dies. made for excavation. where a gentle phrase causes an upsurge. no deadlier war than self-mutilation so after ourselves abandoned to wires. I met an omen. or black essence. or calendula images. we sat in quietude. we stole from concrete. we abused abstracts. it was face-value, a Philistine promise, or an Israelite goddess. I chuckled gently. we knew for rubbish. we returned to status quo. such seismology into beige atmosphere so cursed or blatant such roots reaching into history. I hold silence, I give her determination, while aching in tribalistic pains. (you can’t take it. it ruins clouds. it destroys brilliant men. such creeping at sites such poltergeists where fury has always tasted sour. (would you take it? would you risk the struggle? so into freeing me!) those pierced illusions, or golden jackals, at fierce battles to soar again. the tragedy of skin or those luxuries in the majority while we meet at Abjection’s porch.) to have let go. the proverbial walk. but those watched, got angry, while denying me such retreat. if to hesitate or to wage crime or to inkpad a nation. (it was regular those days, where sense wasn’t priority, but impetuous statements. such became its dejection its catastrophe while there's a monopoly on knowledge.) teach us familiarity, as opposed to differences, whereby, we learn to harmonize. but hostility is this: to have placed a person in a box, whereat, one realizes that he broke out. such perceptual clashes. everything was so neat. one categorized a person for his own contentment. so apostolic those years or sought for embarrassment while pruning an exiled psyche.        

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...