Saturday, June 13, 2020

Parachutes & Boulders


the other side of skies those thunder rings while longing for wings. so chastised so stranded or so enlove it hurts like yams. no more to die for or too disadvantaged for such rich coffee. to adore a crisis or a caricature too influenced to re-dream. the film bleeding the evidence choking while a person is a brazen-faced liar; but Love so damn fine so damn tight as too much to release. such compromise such death as one skating in hell. if but to flower rightly, a calendula brightly or jamesias cooked softly. so crazed a portrait or a magazine goddess or preferring the old Kerry. so resized so devastated where signs call for reality. those streets our cul-de-sacs while it used to feel better! so low so pathetic while her foot is hurting! a lunatic peacekeeper a man with artillery or wondering when violence is acceptable. the black-turquoise damages, the interior cuts, while a baby was stillborn; insomuch as to flee while running to self to trip, fall, and land into a tornado. it amazes how a blessing works where a man is trying hard as to fail and it looks perfect; for Love is attitude, which is fever, but Love is carrying every affliction; where healing is mystery, or therapy is a ghost, while from 12 to 40 but man to man. a little maniac a bit hypomanic but as fixated as a nympho. the plane the jet or those helicopters—to catch a view to understand a key note, our dear attraction for a dying ideology.     such are snakes gnawing gristle, or marrow leaking substance, or spines showing resistance; the shadow in the pouch the scared kangaroo or just enough when it struck. the beautiful grape, the addict slave, so charged by a deep sunrise! those eyes as jigsaws or elixir puzzles while a person first saw her as human. such by danger, to sense a grave barrier, where souls liquor up, or drug out, and love like deep distrusts: the blurry timeline those math mazes while we skipped alliterations. soft cookies or refurbished rites where Love demands respect: those decisions we make, as they leak into colleagues, while we scream concerning no one’s damn business!

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...