Saturday, July 18, 2020

Summer Darkness


it hits soft like cotton. it proves inner glass. as scribes screaming such sullenness. the remedy in elixir the courage in eyes while destiny becomes more freedom. so long ago, such color in brains, or dye to jeans. a dove at his door a lullaby at his memories a doctor at his pictures; to sink into dungeons to squabble for wilderness while a vision appears so unhealthy. so much blockage such a travel or a desert filled by a camel’s kef. such odor while fading or shades awesome by antiquity or a daughter in florescent helium. if but to gander such gears or a delicate miracle—those miles furious those roads unrelenting while a lizard found his body; to resuscitate the soul or give its animation while a soul becomes a damn cartoon. aligned like losing or regathered like winning while narcissism isn’t such a damned creation. our psychosomatics or analytics where granny was haven by metaphysics. such to vanish or seated a day’s conversion, to awaken unprepared to continue.
I have welts in brains or whippings to intelligence or rearranged forced to inherit Love’s rage: the blue ceiling the rotting roof or a spigot spewing violet blood as to drip into fantasies where it could be beautiful or death recontroling something dying
—the man at heart the woman never his soul while Love knows terrific satisfaction. such shimmer in woods it must be a pistol so close as to arrive at mother screaming
—the banshee framed in scars the grandpa laughing to feel good or the father laid out running by purgatory.    
as a daughter shed a tear a soul collapses it becomes the acme of interconnectedness.    
a slight whimper a tremendous machine while too floored into reasons—as beige crimes into nightlong travesty where apologizing doesn’t render belated hopes.
so, a man ponders rivers or weeping truths, as if rage persists why attempting with the gut-phone. as a creature in dusty skies or dusky oceans while we rode all day to be met with a vulgar gesture.
the last ritual while beneath a pillow so gutted as to feel spectacular—where
mystique would appear or daughters might relax or souls might fathom their levity; as parted participants so indignant while certain scars shall never dissolve.

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...