Tuesday, June 16, 2020

Leopards Need Water


gallop with me. see death blossom with me. or give life/pain to me. (these wild elements the wilder seas while personalities are like oceans: such tectonic pressure, or devil-may-care, our bodies chapped by pure exhaustion. by sullen wakes our epithetical funerals, addressed by our own minds; to awaken our boxed/piano tears as craving sky happiness. so steamed to adore or so shocked a response as energy might stem from nervousness.) deliver us or deliver me or carry by baggage our sorrow. a selfish man a stunted growth man or a project in its incipience: our thoughts if they might plaster walls while wisdom extended its welcome. (rereading Tagore or trying to outwit spirits while mirrors suggest a cryptic cage/a creeping edge.) what is our alma mater? the school we attend mentally! or, what must we be a part of? I listen to silence the air between words so knitted by Obel’s art: such piano such incitement while too attached to continue. (by gothic ecstasy into European caves while a scent is enticing or repelling. our days screaming at windows. or nights tasting pitfalls. or reading beatnik literature from the 60’s.) the beat of the drum the tyranny of the saxophone or the agony of the trumpet: too many decades, too much rage, while asked by society to remain understanding. I get anger. I vie in self. I, too, get foolish responses. such tragedy given to tragedy. or palatial pains becoming our pimps. where brains are whored-out by misery. (I phantom with phantoms. I flit with fliers. at surrounded shores. (such rabid containment or devious feelings where emotion must ally with trained thought.) our adrenaline sore deceptive, as we cleave to maxims, while needing assisted filters: those trombones or an arcane harp where we fuss over our monopoly: an impassioned celloist, or an inner saboteur, where some need dark miseries; if to flip clouds or draw humanity as our own melancholy is so palpable to us; those frozen moments as a camera might hint to, while it appears but a soul in a turtle neck. (I have a picture in me. as I compose it transposes afore the laptop. in essence, I see a few people, they drive me!)                   

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...