Monday, July 6, 2020

Dear Crucifixion: (A Daughter In Mind)


myths are gigantic feelings or straightjacketed hopes, so indebted to a compliment. (our purring screams at planks at wreckage.) I know so little while I would need to know, at least, one irritating element 😊.

we should ski or parachute or understand a few goofy laws.

(a man is ginger with life indeed, it requires aggression, else, one to a situation.) such footprint emotion, or nightfall horizon, where minds become unopened/even resealed missives.

such depressed overcast or sorrowing sunshine if to have peace we dine with furies. it arranges art such anger ingredients if but to exhale. (I know core motivation, indicative of humankind, but a bit absent concerning those first flowers.     I unzip a dream. I piecemeal its parts. I unleash an unction.)     I see us letting go or deliberating where this has become normal.
                                                            a sensei is watching, remorse is doing taekwondo, while intellect is at jiu jitsu. those far ethnic shadows, those ancestry banshees, while mothers are assessing vulnerability. (you will come to sing one day. you will place pain on a nightstand. this world will then appear—as a loquacious creature, she will talk too much, where many things will appear to you.)
we slumber right now, the skies are light blue right now, where night is unclear right now. but darkness shall become as if sunrise those morning musk rats/those raccoons/or territories indicative of mind-ecosystems.
                                                            I don’t blame us, such terrible strangers, rereading something hitting its notes—upon a teardrop or a stencil while I pencil in a new date with disappointment. this shapeless meaning, those soundless collages, while often we mask ink.    

such raw ether such dearer planets while I read something by Sybil: those predictions those unvetted words, best explained as pseudo-apocrypha.     a need in gentility. such kindness in a mother. if but true identity/true intimacy.     I feel un-shadowed or unreal or a negotiated proposition. if to serenade serenity. if to hold hands with screams. or something uninvested in misery. to have watchwords, or prophecy or so detached our crucifixion is taken lightly.

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...