Thursday, July 9, 2020

Dungeon Miracle

such iron as it clanks. cloth or deaths, a steel bed. the water breathless, by gut-vein, maybe spoiled milk. smocks or flapjacks or a terrific nightmare. so ready to disperse, so hearse-bound, but a row for serpentines. (such freedom something rejected while making good sense; a scream we sell, a taxi we ride, or a hand filled with herbs.) over near gazanias at an insistent mistake where too many decisions were emotionalized. those pictorial ideals or hoping for a friend if but such character. the database is limited, but answers are concrete, where a turtle might win its race.
            I left Europe. I returned to African America. where distress might fret its reception.
such carking over pieces while adrift its discussion.
to forfeit an idea, insomuch as customs, while listening to volume.
            the witness of souls or the hydrants of spirits if but to shirt a sky-bell. (coloring rebellion or becoming inciteful or satisfying an inner chasm.) such needs for identity such flavor for something incredible, at social kitchens: by unflinching machines into a struggling desert while running with crocodiles. the conference was legal. the coffee felt like surrendering. while breakfast felt like a getaway.
Love knew features or disaster while a man must be perfect:
so much to disconnect, where we lack absolutes, or days at
learning emoted passion.
            it clicks or it perishes while it requires both patients!
            what an aeonian aurora those ties to taste or felt, fuddled, or famous. such dear resistance, to have its name, while we believe in unity: such truffles to validate the invalid where souls are trying hard to balance. (so close in thoughts. so similar in conclusions. where it’s like speaking to one’s self. (I wonder if this is healthy). as sonic sounding souls. as restless spigot brains.)
            but love is Fahrenheit or unmeasurable scales while something intricate has entertained adults: something unclear, so gray, or, therefore, a taker of dog-tags: we call it selfish or violent or plain untrustworthy—but it might be inherent, where souls must be adamant, where effort is necessary. this might be for love. this might be for existence. this might become law!    

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...