Phone Wings

 

so precious in soul surefire intensity while fleeing is impossible. the worth of your mind the grind at its temple so determined to outlive yourself. by mirror or strawberry diamonds the cabinet as I pulled myself out. so combative so much an instruction or battered for damaged so rehearsed. I love blindly while seeing destruction split over sky keys—so tender an instrument so much a kettle at knee-bent sunrise. as thought of you but I can’t love you where minds are weirder on Sundays. such a soft intrusion such a week in my mind as comfort seems temporal—at rancor with self at discontent with self while a bit concerned in you. so thwarted those years while it would be gentle if but alienation with a close friend nearby. as losing support bases, or gambling with health a soul desperate for eternity. so much a cavalier enterprise those disconnected remedies so hurt so lost so catatonic. eyes water it can’t be true, how did it happen? to indict gods to erase demons while minds feel like wraiths. (so much a game, while some are swell, it cuts to be disobedient; but days are ugly the moon is ignorant those winds are at his gullet.) I liked a soul I loved a human I was shocked I mistook both. one connives for a child. one gets said child. one bails out on said child.

I look at colors I remember those papers I get angry as flying such a song to memories. so much so close to fill it rising to hear it singing as it might squint.   

When Does Anomaly Register In The Perceiver?

 

so medium dry while tumbling grayly to unbend a closed wire. if death is sweet, I don’t need to die, so terrific by waves we hate each other. it couldn’t be justice, such an aloof mystic, for to erupt is a miracle. Love was physical, nothing mental, so simple it feels intolerant. as cushioned a soft blow where too much distance becomes even tempered. while one might ask, if principles count, how we detach our umbilical cords? I can’t un-guilt the feeling or applesauce the hurt while one has so much fever. I know for spaces, three days manic two days freedom—to have sweet death where reality is hectic so core bent on your voice. such fiending for escape or hating our souls while pain was essence into sugar—the film up high those irregular emotions or craft to gut something mainly cryptic. in this “mind” as to locate material one might see gods knitting—such gates at opening to adore something closing while intimacy doesn’t come with greetings—to fret those persons, so comfortable, as one behaving out of sequence—so bothered lately such a feud lately while it never gets through lately. so hope filled such pelagic prayers so much so unborn. the cub having attention or the rising bear so feared where reality sets us apart; so delirious so functional or carrying too much for our souls to construct. I noticed behavior so I spoke to it, I have never received an answer that aligns with actuality. so much a covenant, as between two people, where one does whatever comes to mind. such frames such glasses such iron at his intestines; but a shotgun blast so metaphorical while he hung with his terror explosive out his cranium. those logs too heavy but forced to carry with the town screaming or mocking innocence. the wilder the idea those sylvans as accursed awaiting its finality. such ownership as understanding something acute takes place in the souls of humans! 

seeing our differentials, regarding those inner personalities, makes one patient with essence. I speak in riddle, but some must know, the personality is but the bark—the branches are the characteristics. such blue sunrise, such sunbird antennas, while we move like we are invisible. 

I guarantee women are watching!

Russian Roulette

 

such savage dice the deadlock so much human impasse; to hate his guts his heartbeat his gripping eyes; as born for the headlock as disgusted while one says it’s normal—the failure the laughter while it was so uneasy—the board the chalk while glasses dropping into his intuition. sure into our sun as melting facts so analogous to pure raging ambition, the kingdom is jeopardized the queen was beheaded the king to a new toy—as black essence or tar brains while breath is acquitted by tarmac. the powerful voice as ramped into a synaptic gap wired so wrangled as fearing Rihanna—such social kitchenettes so lethal or concerned over something doesn’t love its reflection—as giving so little by taking so much our selfish ass America! our turn at some table where a friend lost by totality; the game so suicidal the flame while cursed so decently indecent—as arms tremble while locked in a trance such a mistake in a life so forgiven by Angelica. too much to protest too much to give a damn while many were palms filled minds leaking our terror our ghosts this wild ass cave. so, dear future those angular fires the camp filled too many souls as watching calmness so backwoods in its treasury or running while hunted the wolves giggle the bodies leap as crossed into fury. sweat is odor the hounds barking so close as to cross a river or duck into a creek—to no avail the mile is crucial so Russian so Roulette the slave might make it North.    

Injury Reveals Essence

 

those in there as diverse creatures as ancestors; to have died in lakes to have leaped from quicksand so blue in October. those blocks they obstruct us while it means too much such passage; by flame to have suffered those eyes in blood those questions so pure. to live as cargo or jettisoned once emptied as one so sociopathic—such rubies in essence so much tar that season while wild with wickedness. so purged it’s unbelievable while others are preaching their straight line; to have trespassed such a woman to have discounted her democracy where one is left with something inexcusable. (don’t drag demons don’t dredge up old ghosts, for a person will hate you!) we need our images our songs our wings where clipped is rage or eyes are eggshells so much a guitar disputing vengeance; an ocean apart while holding strings where most anyone may tug them. (I have an issue it revolves around the whole person, if never is included (never faithful), how will you do it now?) such antics they disgrace life as order comes by strength; so lost in you so torn in you so forgotten by life. to have remedy to have destination where memories always desire soothing. so much calamity, such rearing dysfunction, with little to no remorse.)

it’s subtle or it isn’t believed while one needs to dislike us. too much stock too much gallop too much wilderness. a person runs a risk, in all those pianos, where smartness becomes a repellant. one searches if but for embrace where it comes later in life. (she watches, both in sequence, while ruthless beneath the sea bottom.) so regathered so acute while needing something one delivers: such swimming suspicion, such unrelenting hereness, where we realize such raw, petrifying differences.     

The Gagster Inside

 

dear essence — the blue moon those fevers so much a gagster in us; those sunbeams the seatless ride the seatless seatbelt — as floating in a land or rushing into seas the skyline in our brains. what have you undergone? it crushes to imagine as terror struck while guts pleaded an unstable world. to teeter by disconnection so much a composition as moments seem filled with indifferent habits — those mind-octopuses those rising seahorses as so affected/changed by aesthetics — as a claimed creature roaming a claimed body while love of wife is realer than love of parents. 

so much into rhythms so lost in a daze while so managed as noting normal responses — (the feeling I sin is the response one needed, where I wonder of why I would care) — such a thought so unsocial where isolation has been a pleasant excursion) — the mother as dying if but another practice to lose essence in one so unembodied from home. 

she underwent a nightmare. brooks were sweet. determination undressed. so close, or actually nonresponsive so despondent while a long-life stranger was discomfort — those rounds with self, the whisper it couldn’t become those horizons I ride at sunset. 

metallic instincts at metal forces so ushered into relationality: so relative such decomposition, or so normal those concerns feel unwarranted. 

by disconnect by somewhat apathy by criminality against something trying to breathe; those mountains those rivers those estuaries: a parakeet at a knee, a fenced lioness at an exposition, or compact soil the wrung soul while so strong so removed it only relies on its final portrait.  

the mannequin feeling, or the meme (as a psychologist put it), where I feel guilty of something hectic, for it wasn’t planned—while to have essence, while manipulated for essence, as to turn on essence—the gray skies the crooked moon, where most need things pleasant or smooth or a non-interference: black blooded or brilliance bonded, to bathe in breakage. 

so at ease, it worries some, where most are uncomfortable—the need the demand of surefire familiarity—as needing intuition where it has blossomed to listen to her first essence. 

the maze in a man the cage in a daughter the world to a family. as explosive wits a fluid vocabulary while aside for writing one must hide. so rude of life as to assess life strictly by how we respond—those gates such jousting or jetting into an atmosphere; a right turn a need for resurrection or such a second to decompress self. 

such rancid feelings or staring for seconds while we stress so much to become another essence. 

it promises nothing, it seems insecure, while something, the gagster, is delivering constant observations.

so unseasoned or so undercooked or too much a light as it rechanneled its antenna: our impolite observers or are heart scarring observers while it wasn’t what it became—it wasn’t thought through, but one would rather have existence than watch from clouds.

so unnecessary or things I fail to know where Love was incorrect or a daymare while most need something too perfect to need assistance: it’s an easy life it sides with excellence it stands close in hope of being seen in that light. 

mind fellowship or mind absence where reality becomes phantasmagoria.

innocence or gritty pain of the sunrise or too much to enter the shadow.

interior or upholstery at deep sky-earth so vacant the lots are full. some window as in some fiberglass those months where it was seen for its content but feared for its potentiality. to tiptoe wires to dwell in confliction or so vocal people take notice: the silent soul as creating something beautiful while raiding an extra-dominion somewhere so relegated.

as a creature claiming habits or forming understanding while most of us are passive uncertainty: the cure in expedience, or the radiance in purity, while one might have a filthy closet. “but issue is them. issue is over there. so, please concentrate other than on me.”

Mirror Comfort: By Ideal You Look Like Me!

 

mother played dodgeball. she left behind decorum, unless sweet deception. (I remember soft comforters, hot cocoa, our cheap linguistics; so much dying while unaware of dying where strangers must fit the dying. most church-grounds most city sewers as something misidentifies—the carnival is livid those angry mimes where polarity feels like the gagster the harlequin the buffoon.) no other space no less than I give no more than I can take! so religious but abstract so much the ruined mystic—as light is darkness while darkness is fluorescent where a person finds disappearance—those walls bleeding such souls melting such raw diets. (I comfort in one’s mitigation. I sing suffering for one’s marginalization. while needing for one to never outgrow its literature.) by cold poverty as it would build essence while most of us are not pleasant. it couldn’t matter, while grits boil, we add butter. a bit of bacon a broken solution an old mind-mark. (existence unexamined util taught where everything seems miserable. so keep us dumb while we fret numbness or literature stirs until an explosion ensues—those keychain eyes those freeway lips as a soul learns by such inhumanity.) such the birdsong such tender nothingness such syrupy desolation: to imagine laughter or situation or a smile where it leaks its desperation. such foul weather such as lights out gas gone the village is impoverished: orphans are beleaguered Sunday school is a miracle those cookies such with juice—as dying was popular our minds raptured our guts polarized so split into some tendency while perfection, it was sold to us—the manicured language those mannerisms while a person will love by indecency. such straw lacking mortar while Welfare was just cut: parents having a child if but more funds while drug usage is beyond existential. (blue tendons bold black fingerprints or poverty becoming its own behaviors—those inklings where something is better in such a rush to find a flaw—it must be pain it must have an odor it must be hiding its nature: to locate a reason to die in ourselves where one lends their soul.)     

Habits Are Tactile

 

those eras in segments lost as dungeons if but to grow. so sentimental or lacking solid connection where reality appears so foggy. so tentative such darkness so acute so free. an interior dinosaur some alien/extinct creature, while most are unable to give full empathy. something is just wrong the apple isn’t perfect those feelings are factual. we apply credence to feelings while neglecting their inherent properties or disavowing anything one says: the empty ceiling those bland walls or carpet by touch, it fathoms lowness.

those years so unclaimed so filled by adults so much delivered into bastilles. or made categorically where it was a scream before it became a nightmare. such a sunbird, so much a creature, so much earthward—an on switch so uncharged where most go through shifts—such sewing so much it gives while circumspect or overly a lone space; memories on repeat or intestines knotted, such observed absurdities; the reaping of havoc the destitute abandonment in which both parents have betrayed essence—the action of the purpose such deliberate behavior where exoneration is often demanded …

such a drastic trauma-kit such souls inflamed by stages where one is sly asking society to turn away.

raw emotion or uncooked stressors such wires severing goodness—to ask for forgetfulness to need obligation where one is indefinable pain—such roots so much a need while depleted by human failures. so, letting go is mythic in a benthic reservoir so many mental photographs as needing trust or buffering, receiving rusty intimacy. damn close to nihilistic or running some grand leap, while one might see that person we hide.  

 

Quiet Anxiety

 

the terror becomes the comfort or blanket or cold, stiff, realization. a man needs to love, but mother is vehement, or father is absent. I speak as painting a lonely corner, where his words adjust against him. but truth is its deliverance. it isn’t always favorable. nor does it exonerate situationally. 

instead, it places facts higher, it wonders of what we know, it determines ignorance versus deliberate neglect. I ate my conviction, where, as usual, the horizon is suffocating. we stress. we deny. we kill each other. 

a man must comply where networking is vicious where I do not agree. we give it a different definition, hold that as tantamount, while contemning those who missed the transfer. language becomes violent. discomfort must linger. as it hovers right in our auras. (we feel obligated, in every respect, to voice our disapprovals) … 

but strangers have so little for others or peoples aren’t trying to carry strangers & life is quite short to carry too many naysayers; the gift of the solace those avenues closed while soul steady opens; such a relationship, it should remain professional, where personal elements are tucked in their files. 

nonetheless, our distaste for theology, whereby, for one group, theology should go away. 

such higher reasoning while we need esteem but often it goes astray. one is fraught, physically hurt, so much a galloping spirit; to have died early to have channeled early if but such contempt spread on their person. 

something to write about or something to discuss, while this too becomes frustration. 

so many issues. such linear mistakes. while many are dying, trying to breathe, having a hard time congratulating survivor(s).

I wanted to fret or such dismay while despair is at his soul. someone has to live, indeed, with phantoms in a phantasmagoria—those wraiths inside those happenings inside such unreasonable receptors inside. to have something distinct, to skies with screams, while passion leaks or dies or destroys quiet anxieties.  

Crowded Box Is A Lonely Web

 

I try to see you as ransom determines while pieces are inflamed; so much a tendency or so much reluctance while no one appears responsible. the heights are flowered so decorated by indecent excuses. souls are abandoned. most feel lonely. while culprits have something perfect: the right answer, the well thought out response, where the image looks perfect, or screams, “It couldn’t be my fault!” some dream. no one is listening. no one is subscribing to the perfect existence. the doctor is affected, by damages inhaled, while reality is universal. I may have formulas. I may dance with eagerness. while it hits the household. a man must be dizzy something too passive as to be attached to a certain woman. where it becomes normal, everything that aches, where a man learns to hate his life. but Love is happy, looking at a miserable man, as long as he doesn’t leave. 

I asked a question, I knew the correct response, but it didn’t paint that way. 

we have suspensions concerning mentalities—we have labels; indeed, pathologies are universal, no one is even, while this becomes popular. such taboo, such stigmata, while essence is grieving. 

such boundaries to inquiries such raw denial or such a different quintessence. a man will listen, he will make a decision, or even claim Hosea’s wife. a pain will hit, deep disappointment, as it settles into his rationality. such wonder of pure evilness as asking, “What have I done wrong?” 

so reluctant to call it by its name. so attuned it feels like super-consciousness. so determined to avoid certain definitions. they do something as to alarm us while they punish us for candid honesty. one learns as not to trust them—while someone is saying something is by debate. (a person without training determines what happens where a doctor then prescribes a dozen pills.) I feel concerned, as knowing it’s this easy, where a difficult child is drugged for mother’s sake. 

you stand strong the winds are respectful or you possess its gift. many will trespass they will see excellence deciding to authenticate it, for many need to vet, albeit, unqualified, where it becomes a disgust for us. to hate a person to dislike one’s ability, as unquestioned by self—so many behaviors. it becomes a game. where buttons are pushed. just for the purpose of writing one’s ills. I create a scenario I deduce a conclusion, where it must be real. (we must ask of a serious dilemma, “How have we depended upon answers we created situationally?”) but a complainer or a container where he must acclimate to creative motivation. 

I saw her phone while miles away, I became concerned. something is ringing, it stands aside a shadow, it lives in the penumbra. a dark spot in a darker spot, while we claim light. 

the skies are looming the waters are gloomy the defamation is radiant; some measure we have a game by different rules — “Why doesn’t he look like me?” 

the days are long the song is unheard as no one quite cares. we need intimacy if but for a capture while one left shortly after. the same agony the pit so desolate, the desert so destitute. it requires a soul while humanity is first choice insomuch as a person never adores his culture. most are at the eight ball. they watch for an angle. the aglet is wrapped around sociality. one has some freedom the world is angry — it’s more about the heritage than the actual art!   

Keys Face Desolation

 

—   palms sweat miracles come true needing is realized. if but a feeling or consciousness to try, as best we must, to understand injury; so little to pass madness too much to unleash it or too sad to obey something hating me. such beauty in your prose so much I disappear or such enigma in your poetry. a soul by much anguish a feeling while behaving where a child is oblivious: “Mommy, I love you. Mommy, you’re beautiful. Mommy, I feel good.”

—    upon open sores or putrid sociality so convinced it would be glorious; if but those magic markers if but freedom, while we haven’t defined our intention. it becomes silly as just a need, if but to live alike to another person; such genocide so many suicides or patricide. such deep uneasiness or pure vehemence where some are loving so deeply it hurts second to minute. by fury to be distressed by need to meet expectation—this is existence!

I was so dear as a fool. I became an enlightened piranha. no one quite gave a damn!

at a mental funeral, so unexplained, so examined at every impasse. to notice similarities as we evaluate souls where it takes recognition of places designated for citizens. we move slowly. we consider special interests. we need potential lies. existence is either bullfights, soul-fights, or political fights. some are so much with wisdom. they glide with grace. where no one knows them.

 

circumstance has been with injury accompanied by agonies. I would intrude or stitch fabrics while something is unstudied—as a trademark, it becomes pain, where it varies in certain souls. like a nun from Kenya, or a priest from Australia, it just rubs our ears a certain way.

 

I am a soul with a journey with a set of keys. you are a soul with a journey with a set of locks. we mingle we exist we unveil windows, remove doors, or speak of those insidious desks. to disburse into woods to sit on a stump or to dispel all of such sawdust. such walls as if they never fall or such skies as if no planes or to jet passed a mistake as we redeemed justice. to un-pave ideals to become like flesh as to absorb our trials. to one day unlock to make copies to have two sets of keys.        

Freedom Remains Unstudied

 

some may break boxes some will acquiesce some will live out undercurrent hatred—of eyes or kettles while countenance whistles—those anchors those chain-links so much disorder so cooked inside—to dance with penalty or facing our jurors while wild about begging for redemption. a daughter near her arrival or far too wise while ostracized so much pure detachment. such intuitive glasses, assessing each word, while it creates a certain consciousness—to feel alive while fretting 

insecurity such apathy those times in injury. (to reinforce a negative to chance a venture while too insidious to reason with; or pains so self-studied so self-inflicted, while disease centers around by love one cherishes. such perfection in injury such beauty in its wound or such democracy in its travesty. to unlive while unborn while it comes like heat to arise on a cold slope; by rakes to attend grass to gather leaves or branches sawed where we watch closely insomuch as the fury is eternal.) 

it seems squalid so fetid why many will agree with it? 

by excellence to hide tragedy by eloquence to voice-when-captured as many afflict you & carry on with existence. it means nothing it has no life if it can’t lay down it can’t breathe. 

“I’m well-bred, I deserve totality, but I’m unhappy.”

 

some will break free while subject to perform where many will challenge such serenity. by inquiry to discover why I dislike self or purity of intention to feel like a decent human. some are wiser than time or scruples are intact they live a pretty carefree existence. most agree most are in on its secret most show deference to its hierarchy. it comes by nature. it was knitted into their childhood habits. it feels natural. many do not fit they are intruders where some wish for Draconian Law. (we never realize those souls we speak with until it comes to its peak.) our age contradicts history, where souls are taught to disbelieve order, even to become social anarchists; indeed, so studied this way, so formed by our hands, only to assert obedience. thus, a rebel is lonely, except for other rebels, while in-cultural havoc drips into other cultures. freedom is challenged. “It isn’t for me, so it isn’t for you.”   

The Day Has Been Long

thieves take control, aggression rules sire, where humility is beaten by hickory. so understanding in myths such captured innocence while it runs into seas. (apathy or pain succinct silence or the drained voice, where time is kicked in its ass.) I wrestle today, essence catches its whale today, while dolphins are tugging at resilience today. the flower is gutted the calmness in fever or cries have broken dungeons. to sense in patience to listen in violence while we need good sense. it doesn’t matter it lives forever while souls paint with tyranny. the man on its edge the woman wandering or the soul with angst so tender its sweet.

I can’t unface you it seems so cruel while it sounds necessary. I can’t ruin you, I never tried, while lack of activity can’t redeem actuality. the cage in its missive the mouth in its palm the parents at their recompense. we get our lots we get our actions we live our failures. by harsh music but raw truth where some want the myths to procreate. so numb or hurt so dismissive or absorbed as we ask for justice while exonerating ourselves. so much a reminder so cushioned with notes while we haven’t corrected those patterns. such dung talkers such soul-fire while most are searching for exemption. so credulous with strangers so hateful with old flames while damaged time into space. you will never forget. you will only persevere. you will out-survive. you will surpass du jour. the gate is guarded, indeed, fenced in, surrounded by a brick wall. the thief is running or leaping or dead or resurrected; as recooked brains to grow stronger where one can’t be reached. such sensitive beings by casualty-antiquity where most are raging into the kingdom; for it suffers violence, it suffers hatred, the violent take it by studies. so small in us so large in them, try an undifferentiated fire.      

One Last Ghost

 

it was adolescence so charged if but to own capacity. it came like winter such tension such begonias—to sense subtle fierceness or electric fire some furnace begging its redemption. (it seems appropriate to point out something palpable, we find our humanity as irreligious—so filthy, “I must be cleansed,” our stay is strategic.) so much more a given handicap while feeling sorrow for our faces—the man lost family, the daughter lost father, the mother was furious. we can’t forgive, it’s anti-gods, it means so much—the touch scraping the maze of maggots those marshy swamps. by values by craft by misery; so impulsive so regenerated so many trees planted; the sculptress as gazing at hands so disappointed with design. by a master drive as falling or galloping to arise petting the stallion; so disjunct so ridiculous while reality becomes cartoons.     over a latte, I met passion by Love’s merits—to enter space to unfeel a magnet, too much into wilderness: facial recognition so compatible where it becomes a curse. some are gifted but frantic for they adjust so swiftly: they read us they remain responsive, they need acceptance. such archaic angels as roaming Eternity such violence as it spoke. the inner summer the nightly beasts while Love might fall enlove. so detained so gallant or so stupid to lose. it must scream so many faces while odors waft upon a manic spell. such memories such leisure so gymnastic; as undercut, for Love was grander where lovers fail to count. such hated feelings or so low while activity becomes hectic.

 

            let’s try:

 

she’s six-foot tall, size twelve waist, double cupped sized breasts; longer abusive mane an elongated neck plush odorless so swell! an absence of discoloration. aesthetic knees. such hijacking buttocks. a neat war inside, a touch of eloquence, a drastic-outlandish-esthetic lioness—as right there a pair of wings a candle so lonely; by rush to laugh, by eyes to adore, by rage so political; a fist for justice, a decent wit, while Virgo at music. such an Aries or a shocking, uninflated Libra. I forget at moments, such a rainbow, so cured so dead such wheezing to escape. lips so purchased or a nose so robbed while invading a man’s safe. an artistic bent. a poet in rain. a novella on its shelf. to look while pleading if but one last death!   

The Muddy Sun Lake

   

by an hourglass such shivering as admitting wrongness. such gut-fire such rumination while accursed this round. orange skies those grays, such social pages, while decency becomes fair discussion. you might feel a person, so dearly charmed, as sheer disappointment ruins future disposition. so neural now. I take a guess. but it isn’t hard. —oh it was you those absent years as oh it was profanity; to slam a feeling to down a shot or something too gray to admit—     such nesting such beadles or sky-mites; as gnawing her guts so thrown away running into turmoil or treasure; such a friend as facing his phantoms while close to choking up the ghost.     it locks at a dead-end, hands up screaming for mercy too sewn to deteriorate—but oh each death!     family whales such distressed looks where one wonders of what you’re dragging: the earth’s eggplant the world’s energies or the demon’s existential; a problem in her mirror, a manic in her anger, or battling an internal prescience. so paranoid so nervous or filled by anxiety. a damn cartoon a radical hesitation where familiarity fills what life is worth.     the photograph is reclusive.     the story is redundant.     we cringe to rehearse it—such a noisy ass imperfection!     by pentacle ink or unlikely aspiration so suited for a few words; as alien creatures trying desperately while affected by heritage.     by phonograph or polygraph while parties concerned have formed beige lies.

   

you may become virtuoso or an organic knitter at some office surrounded by admiration.     “but it looks dreary the essence is slipping the truth is frantic; Love is dying, mother is trying, father is estranged. so much devastates so many irritabilities plus something pushing out of my face. it gets so gray the fields are muddy the carpet is bleeding. these shoes so heavy those roots so obscure while identity isn’t solid.”     so much coherence so tugged but clear while something wild is inside. it must respond. it lives for acknowledgement—while ignoring it, demonizing it, (getting lost in someone’s damnation of it), it ruptures your soul.     such a gift such a curse but perception depends upon the knowledge you eat. your kitchen is your home, you have the last say, you are its chef, its professor, its library!      it started at infancy, while storing data, but most of essence is first acidic—as fantasts negotiate, taking inventory, peering into soul-existence.

 

(you are loved, cherished, & ready for your crown.)             

Muddy Marsh Entry

 

(soft anguish touches softer purple petals.) the fields are bloody. our color rises. or deep a swampy creek!

to rest tender pain, infused with fire, such pegs to die for dear treason; to need freedom by reaching retention such miracle destruction.

early hours into noon naps while winnowed such a passionate curse. so much chaff while fleeing by winds hounds sniffing trails.

I can’t wake up, nor can I sleep, the river is drenched by pensive souls. (I passed a vision. I passed a mandrake. I was received upon muddy underbrush.)

sour paintwork or unused glitter for it only highlights—something filthy or some void of value while we speak of rage.

an old style an old grackle while one would delight in her company. (so fragile so frail pleading for her brains back!)

years come we decode misery we fight to get the good in us. (it can’t be remembered, but a few have told while passing through Baton Rouge: so humbled, so remarkable, such courage, pride, pure determination. as gravel whispers, or hickory bears witness, or dirt pays homage to celebrated slaves. so much to live made it so hard to die while The Cross was eccentric.)

so multifaceted. it works for all nations. it’s monitored for safekeeping.

I was fretting her. I was musing her. it seemed innocuous. (but keep our lanes or ride our carts or sit as designated.)

to paint it Black to arise in feelings to bathe in emotion, while ecstatic over White inroads.    

A Psychologist, A Table, A Client

 

with tell-tell people we ask by emphases, “Who fashioned you?” science wants to know what happened where did it start? they interview us or set a rubric to our sanity while codifying our lives. we affect each other. we catapult ideas. where many are better than others: they fit into its lie they seem unconscious of actions, they are not whelmed like others. consequences are illusions or essence means so little or they loathed their very breath. (something happens in America. it springs from societal mandates. while most people question if they fit the equation.) it is pain to ostracize self. it gets too lonely. most people need someone—as saying supportive maxims or reassuring self-worth or structuring psychogenetics. despite pathologies, one needs to feel loved, in spite of destroying, by sabotage, each fragile relationship. (a person loves another person. that person doesn’t know how to love. the remnant given becomes the suffering remnant—while the receiver doesn’t know how to love either. they do something addictive they harness it where it feels like such sweet illusion. indeed, they live promiscuity they hold on to congestion while too much evidence means switching partners.) people like to know. one has a hankering. they ask questions like, “When do you first remember having those thoughts?”     our society is unveiled the morosity is in the winds such melancholy sweeps our nation.     atop everything we must be perfect.     such fragile creatures forced into strengths while attempting to keep our countenance light. surrounded by doctors. a bit defensive. while simple dialogue determines our errors. so, many run even state to state, if but to outrun their indelicacies. they pour out. they become raw. (a man once told me, “It’s not that serious!”) we wonder about that, where life is unexamined, while everything is at face value. academia is frantic. the signs are rioting. such minds are transfixed.

Unlasting Intermission

 

to rebuke silence or ask for punishment so long at the curse — torn by foibles aching understanding those parts in us. I can’t unbelt fury as mere a creature so much pain as his dietary. days in thought so crosswise as one embedded in a mistake. it wasn’t his calling but he answered, now the phone keeps ringing — as broken by components such life brimming such birthrights revoked; unleveled so ruptured such an inner alien so much an American fugitive.

—  if I burnish a gift wrapped in entrapment how must I be received? to much a riddle so gone after patience where something lost must be of value. it would deceive life it might capture life while life is eerie or uncomfortable. to see it as it laughs to sleep with it as it snores or to feast with it as reality is screaming — by graphs or penance if but to shake vein-venom.

—   certain to vanish for it seems decent or years upon a morning surprise; so many ghosts or such a smile while snug in discrimination. a bias for our own. a treble vibration. or weeks looking at one spot on the rug. (but fire or by rain where one decides to chase after insights. so many fret arrivals, so many beg prior to departures, but nothing changes without struggle.) some disgusted with toil, it must come easy, while easy has meant eternal pain!

—  too much of weather or wrangling inside while most are celebrating Enlightenment … but a gift refusing itself such inrushing flame such inmost disturbance. to find us debating over something it can’t die where for itself it needs every secret — as kleptic mind-violence so determined to feel worshipped … it can’t matter, it remains furtive, while it worries.

the chameleon bled another hopped up such essence to mimic itself. or something sly to watch the gods squirm to fashion them wiggling where it must seek its own reasoning … for one suffered. it was made obvious. thus, no one was allowed to find lasting peace.         

Ambrosia Under-Sky

 

…never you mind when soul hits so many colors…. so baptized at love for Christ so dead it feels like goodness. I saw a bird, I fell apart, dear gods give it back! tears or chills or both; so felt like Jesus our energies so afloat in the circle. so alive as gods' felt, to eat ambrosia to sit in pool-gardens. too deceased to be here to gone to hear voices while whispers cut too damn deeply. I hit traffic a bit of laughter I churned an old terrain. death was looming I flicked a symbol it kept on passing. those diaries in me those memoirs in me while a voice is nudging his daughter. the failure in the poet the maniac in its essence so mystic I vomit gold. no bleeping closure a ghost to his sentence while the churchyard is bleeding. so about fortune so damn low while the psych can’t free me! an invisible man an invisible island so set to defend his righteousness; the fair creature the obedient soul while it took too damn long! it was fury so bloody while a man tasted his failures.

I saw brilliance it cut my arteries I awoke faced by God. I wanted back, it never happened, the doctor said, “Mystic Marchand’s.”

as a soul lost or found it couldn’t matter. to flow like drains to become a sink so uncured wrestling Satan.

it punctures the liquor hits I feel bleeped up. so sober such a lie by reigns because it didn’t get drunk.

I heard the last song I ran without motion the bird was back. so careful so sloppy where it could come in time!           

so much power it wrecked honor the name was tainted; a ghost afloat a demon below while I asked for clarity. too broken too opened too much to love dying. the course so coarse while no one asked permission! face to pavement foot to brains while a maniacal giggle! I woke up, fraught by sweat, I was still sleeping. I walked the length I saw Snags something poked, it was Rasta. so much this click so dead in me, so alive in fleece. an old timer, a new clock, where we ate by palm!  

Some Stages Are For Mere Pain

 

we trek by mud or by canyon such social stuntmen. the wire is inside those agonies are rashes while a daughter plays viola.

I try such beliefs or sympathies while failing to conjure a clear symbol. it seems easy in a world of games so many are anti-decency. I was an infant buoyant in a tub with mother making noises. I was adolescent in emotion or callous in response where it seemed unstable. but a man or a mouse or something distinguished by darkness.

such tightwires such juggling such interior definition. too much for love while snatched from sentiments where healthy means living out each moment.

so much a new circle. we chance our horizon. while it feels like cadence. such morosity or anxiety such social dependencies; daredevil antics or rehearsing a play as characters become human enactments. so much a stage so much a curse as souls spin into globes. I would admire or hassle or feel so detached. I would fret you or damn you while desiring your affection. such a young man. I could have spoken. while rejection seemed important.

is it true, this ropedancing love, is it truly a number flame?

such arabesque balance such acrobatic flipping while we adore our carnivals. so designed to love each other, unless aberrant or frustrated, where dying for you isn’t an option. by hair-raising pains, by eyes too focused, while one slid a false ace. so much to need a person if but to feel resurrection while he loved or she floundered.

            I failed so often, it became rehearsal, while America seems disjunct.

so many hiccups such raw silence as seated writhing internally. those radiant pains such obvious anguish, where, albeit, it’s seen, one just wants to hump!

it became absence as to stir curiosity—it was never full on presence. so ridiculous of souls to honor souls while hating self. so surly or desperate as for freedom; by welts or lashes so much an unnovel ideal.

I would admire a person to locate a feeling in persons while ignoring the deficit in persons. it seems anti-reasonable, to sense a person’s damage, while trying to use that person. it isn’t human. it kills humanity. where one argues the needs of intervention.      

Black Sun-Paint

 

you never fried salmon, so raised on beef, while so anti-pork. such Jewish sentiments, so escaped, too captured. those Jamaican rules, so Ethiopian, too beautiful in me. I died early, upon contact, I wanted to exist as a god; if but those eyes so bloody with fame so assaulted by memories. so grandiose. I can’t fathom, indeed, how we live otherwise.     so taken as never a creature those dynasties you live by. such aches upon a crush, a man is handicapped. such thriving, racing alleys to hit an escape plan; the bird is floating, we head underground, it’s been a decade. such allusions, while we ponder, so poignant into a cyclone. to un-bathe silence to become vocal where we reckon sanity. I met her laughing. she looked angelic. I was captured—so many to die for!     I saw bodily I craved with penance while so pensive the bloody moon cringed.     to crawl climb or convert. such revving reality or undue respect.     I read each line. I knew for a soul. I met something disappointing!   

Dear Sun Lake: we sense a flower it senses in return we desire to color those spaces. as never to intrude as never to abscond, especially, with a person’s future. so many lemurs as attuned where an animal becomes sheer affection.

to resurrect. to return to Jesus. while they fairly fathom our needs for inner ghosts.

I met her in a coma. I saw for its first time. where the liquor bank was closed. such reaching such divergence while dangling upon a wire.     so hurt. so abandoned. faced by such a miracle in self!

can I claim Africa?

shall it claim me?

I reappear in self. so lost a canyon. while renegotiating core axioms. the maxim in Mars the feud in Neptune, as we vanish in essence dropping from Uranus.

a table inside, ten students inside, while we thrash each other’s work.

I was devastated by Jesus such a rush in Jesus as never such literature as Samuel. to cross cultures as sensing souls while some are an aphrodisiac—those pearl cries those robust excitements where dying seemed inappropriate.

I wanted more. I couldn’t to divide self. it was lethal a black sun-paint.   

Lake Selah!

 

by facial skies or sung into delirious as abused by existence. by lone moments as reflecting life so many shadows. the stereotypes or stigmata where a man is no good—such creatures a first glance where it meant so much—as expecting rosaries or shrubberies at some peach patch. so churned such basement behaviors as sullen into a daymare; so unbelieved, begging or arisen arts such strange aliens: the man to his gut the traffic to its panic while wildness is in her eyes: so difficult so moody while mostly irritable. prolific passion or erased everything as one debates if father is necessary. the loveable angst such raw fires so real a realm of fury. upon auroras or upon a petal where it seems so necessary.

I touched concrete, such metaphor, if but to adore much amore. so human as a default such memories as defunct where anxious pain seems sweet revenge. the defacto father the dreary rains such papered cries. to die with us as it remains in us the fleeting of simultaneous hearts.

such unfair fairness or low highs while each wound would scream; the face of emptiness those loud levities as accursed for so much others did. by innocuous trials to become a nocuous travesty as angered one couldn’t adjust; our selfish easiness, so difficult to love by excellence—to ask mercy; so furious with us so unlike us or so desperate of us—to adore pain to foundation rain such remorse in our polemic. I met a mean woman. but it’s difficult—for often one is tugging a chain. so much tension to imagine explosion where it was never our sunrise morning.

so much a balloon as it twirls such helium in a given ego. wild ass sentiments or delirious charms so faced by greatness. as radical creatures such tender chaos while we sullen a misprint.

oh to give if but to believe where winds slam essence. the gusts roaring those sudden origamis while dark arts have assaulted our gray horizon; so much to ache like deaths or to complain like newborns, while older, many people do not respond. sweeter waterfalls, at Shiloh memories, while David screamed, "Selah!"    

Is Conception Based In Insecurities?

 

we are mastering moods, certain shifts, as introspective liaisons. we are semi-discontent, or quasi-lovers, where we desire intimacies. a man is sullen, even for years, his anger is tapped into & he becomes better. it never leaves, even while joyous, one feels it investigating: too much glee & one is hesitant, but somber states seem to feel comfy.

to meet a person as to assess a person, something shifts in us. we rely on perception. it becomes interpretation. but are we accurate? moreover, is it relevant?

true honesty fails to suspend itself. true frustration sounds authoritative. & true love aches for its object.

I saw her in aura, it looked familiar, I searched to find myself. it mustn’t be asserted, in order that it has existence, but a little nudging helps us.

I am in essence for her, such celebration for her, while popping a guarana.

upon reception we spoke. something was askew. I realized I had written something unapologetically. instead of apologetics, where we defend something offensive, I, here, make a public apology.

truth is never capitalized, for it is, unfortunately, relative; but we might claim a maxim, something apparently true, A person has the right to exist!

it was late summer the years had spun a web a man was at love like he owned love. such a delicate scar, those hopes screaming, while an adolescent speaks in more truths. such fever in immediacy. such raving kindness. where we have yet to unveil the stranger. if but those first three weeks, as placed on repeat, one might die with passion.

I have offended sensibilities. I have obtained suspension. I drift into spaces a bit aloof. such insecurities as they race into perception while a dear creature is having a hard month.

our terrible axioms, I have a few, while I want to believe our cores desire something positive. indeed, one speaks to aberrant orientation, where a child has become anti-humanity. we’ll leave that to experts!

What Is The First Task?

 

surefire stolen, as removed from his galaxy, to recommend a deposit. so much to flame as accused of irony while wild-grass blocks the window. I peep in. I walk in. I run out. too much love too much pain too much as unorthodoxy. I met a machine, so attuned, while a miracle to earth; brown firepower or burning underbrush, where humans are firebrand fuel. those trapdoors those forest vestibules while an office seats mid the fires. so low in seconds, regrouping frantically, so connected to something estranged. too abased to flourish, or too haughty to gain friends, or too humble to be respected. so much our wilderness so much our lives so thrown into disorder. to see her, as in a lost orbit, while mother forgot his name.     many have luxury, they curse mother, while pain creeps in; it becomes a force, such indwelling absence, such surrendered logic; the mountain in the elephant, the whale on his shoulders, or the skies crashing down. but a wild man so made humility where wisdom would pile upon the pyre. too early to laugh, or too dear to offend, while mistakes are often the rubric.     I need mother perfect. I need father present. so wild an ideal where souls are steady! it dies with me. it restructures with me. while favor is hard to earn. so deranged in thoughts, those years racing, it was similar to a death-wish.     some are not qualified, where we beg for acceptance, but those persons can’t grant clearance; credentials are unfit, mentalities are unstable, where something peculiar has taken place, (no one is unclassified!).     we met unsteadily we pitched our schematics where too much waiting becomes tyranny; but rain was watching it dripped into spirit the roof was soaked. such unchained fire or deep delusion where a man sees something in his unconsciousness. pure black flame or rushing rivers in such rapturous survival. to have adored you while life is falsified where we debate, if noticed or unnoticed!

so many years, if promised a reading, while isolation is flaunted error. to go too low as to feel naked while reclaiming existence is not the first task.         

 

Petal Glasses

 

it’s been so long the craft grows strength the piano is mocking. such social seismology such branches so brown as guts are fleeing—the battle became a war those fruits exploded, for it’s just too much pressure. the names are in graffiti those boundaries blur where Love was too low to remain faithful. such a hypocenter so incorrect while we pass by ugly behavior. it kills it laughs while I never meant to justify that! passion so gentle or a second with a stranger while prone to a familiar essence. the blue shades those shadows in men the luxury of loving you. so torrid so sultry while being sexy is an issue. hear me in our jukebox so much a child of backgammon while older folks blazed with Aunt Betsie. those years where it seems natural to learn that, in everything, your way of life was abnormal.     (First Person!)     I rev an outflow I see Jesus I wander too much!     bedside prayers mental orison while it occurred a soul so manic—such vetting such cursing while she might not remember. they’re compatible their lives are set, (a hoax) but everything is perfect without me. so blown into a coma so much racing over a canvas such inappropriate gut fury. too much a snakebite but it means nothing, for men must payback every reality they stole. those Hittite eyes, that Canaanite chin, or such Ethiopian courage—so far off the grid so close to genetics while most are claiming Neanderthals. I could speak his brain or lose this vessel filled with rage while it’s too much to confess; our good looks our smooth charms, while we believe another person is perfect. Ah! it gets sticky as no one wins where a man can hold on to his displeasures—or a daughter holds on to her disgusts—it appears so much warmer!     the wasteland or so curious while a madman loves his rejections—those gray valves those spigots leaking or the dish washer alive suddenly. to die for rain to cut his arteries where he arose laughing with Elisha. Love was so damn beautiful the soul was sickened or money seemed insignificant—that fool in the poet as a gaze is a universe where allusions are too close to home.     (so many crushes, what’s reality?)      

Authors Sense A Mistake

 

by what vehicle such tiptoeing winds as slammed into his heart. so close to narcissistic or too humble to win while essence has been desecrated. such social volume but a chapter in our diary if but to confess more of a schism. by nerves so existential by grains so underappreciated or by bodies performing at half their capacities. it was devastating where a man tries to acquiesce but rage becomes adopted by its culprit. to have never known exclusivity or so much a short run while most do not care—the error of the soul those candles for the soul where one becomes acclimated to other souls. such pride in someone, while this is pain, it destroys as realizing the defogger; by rooms filled with smoke by anxieties racing midair or carnival sleeping in soils. our first surgery our mythical behaviors where being closeness seems to betray its understanding. some need so much as a tear would fall to get into that space, so bled into apples or swords at our closets while machetes hacked until spirit would vomit—the man at his ideals the woman at her securities the mind fleeing itself! to decide, reluctantly, if but to realize people don’t get better, in a sense, we make it better; such a conflict, for roots are needed, while Love is kneeling too close to surrendering. such religious language, requiring works, while most are a bit unsteady. there were feelings in us there were miseries in us, we see how combinations have ruined us. by mental collars or iron crucifix such reaching elements; to have filled one greatly, to have manifested the extra conscience, where one rebels as running so far away—it’s another monster! if not to see in visions, so often a spectacle, while Love just stepped into the kitchen: our souls undergoing wretchedness, our cries so splendid, while needing such healing assignments; to die forever, to live one glance, suffused with fantastic fire. (Dear Author: Is it correct or sturdy, or was something misidentified?)           

Vapor Becomes Substance

by intonation so abused by science while trying to hold abstracts; theoretical pain, reduced emotionality, in a world suffering sheer rain. the dead man walking the lively woman crying the death we adhere to; despite, such unleveled fire or radiant fright as accursed to create wings; as no one believes or shadows are walking where relaxing is its myth. so much in flying. so much in cringing. so split so ruined while someone might give us voice. so poignant so unstudied while looking at you is painful. so much a raffle or needing one life while most stagger through moods. the day was long. it has been for weeks. where nights revolve into anxiety. to know her strength as never a study where intuition is retreating from adventure: if to impart some gift or to ask a question while zones shutter or shelter is a myth; that daily person, such discredited behaviors, or too imprudent those years. to confiscate self, or to outrun the theft, while awakening/answering self. such a riddle such deep uneasiness where professionals are making guesses. the expert prying the expert dying if but to understand something so intimate to the expert. our surly agendas our few mistakes or so close to reliving, its too far. it becomes bizarre or extraterrestrial or something eluding a definite definition. so vital to its soul too elusive to undress or too reclusive to escape.

            so unilateral as polemic becomes cuddled where reality must fit tradition. the ax in its stub           those treasures so evasive while essence has boiled into vapor, it lives! 

Reknit Me

 

into essence or breaking sadness too accursed to sing music. or driven so ghostly at some disappearance. I watched messages or remixed antennas while weary too used; Love is sleepy or testy where most calculated trauma coming.     so captive upon a thought so credulous into absence while we condemn others.     some deserve leniency but what of existence where it was altered?

I walk skies traveling in silence with none pleading for compatibilities.     most remain unhealed or unsteady or angry; for anger is segue, proven explosive, many prefer it over love. such obscure language. consideration is called love. where most are used, then asked to depart.     but seldom into a nightmare, two discover essence, while feeling incompatible.     such melody such an internal voice as needing a palm steady through darkness; the kiss made supernal or war while sweet if but to address a complex reality.

            I knew comfort, as I knew naivety, so unsure of how we define love: if it’s raw passion, which never hurts, we have a hard time claiming it; if it’s raw trials, where reality is shaky, then we all knew it.  

            a level of maturity, as opposed to irritability, where one feels like a beggar.

it seems like clarity where we often wonder if but to create something difficult. so sharp to temple such glory in affectation where attentiveness is called love. so rare we hear of a soul so possessed two couldn’t breathe otherwise. as novelty commands a hand in disarray so suffused it’s hard to pass venom.

I admire something I can’t see—it tends to reknit me.          

The Magician In Its Flute (Sun Lake)

 

so much as muddy to rinse in ditches to grow into our ghettoes. raw personal behaviors, or looming energies, aside from the poolhall. women on poles, pimps in shadows, hanging on to a last leg. our begging bodies our rage-filled brains or language a child shouldn’t hear. a seven-year old addict a nine-year old trafficked or a soul desecrating her mother’s image. “You’re just like your father. He left me, too. Both of yall can go to hell.” something to rethink, where one might gain clarity, as to realize why father left…to spread wings to get closure while a child becomes a casualty. by wrath of its war by cages of its disgrace or suffering long into our damages…to hate all parties or to give mother tyranny while expecting something one cannot give. a teaspoon of existence, a teacup of pain, where most default to feeling abandoned; so much by unclarity, so untidy inside, where 

thoughts tend to dismay us. 

at this moment, I can’t see you, while it may be indefinite. I fret its reality, but be it true or false, I never outright consider self as some victim. (but it should amaze, how nothing has gone correctly, while we mingle with other mentalities/other cultures. something 

expects correctness, in broken souls, where no one has gained much training. the addict needs a program. the physician needs a doctoral schematic. & pain needs credible education. we get lost in ideals, as such we haven’t earned, where most just need that ‘something’ to work out of its own 

accord 

—no real toil, such little application, while struggle is out of the question: the relationship must fit me; the boss must understand I am different; the kids must naturally obey me: our existential is dependent upon our inner perception while true rigidity, as stressing facts, is greatly forfeited.) I rant a bit I teach a bit but I try to touch that one conscious/conscience second. (you might fret the stranger. you might feel unspoiled. you might iron without starch. indeed, you might 

feel unwanted or terrorized by thoughts while many are tackling something they can’t understand: initial irritability; something un-new arising with vague clarity; or a unique temperament. it becomes consciousness, while it alienates while alienated, where it must be the disabled person. such flaunting indifference, where most feel perfect, even more so than our mystic heroes.