Sunday, October 25, 2020

Uncertain Weather

 

would to passion so accursed where adoring you is made angst; such flame as it rises where it could never be us. by miracle our bodies so lost—no keys—the engine is raging. such torque or tyranny or torture—as found near lakes a man ate sulfur a woman redeemed while dying—the race as uncured while fire was sweet distraction; boundless beauty untold luxuries where sadness has screamed, it desires revenge—those terrible branches such terrific cries if but so much to win such losing. as benthic oceans, would survive its beginning, a man might run with caimans. at some height some chemic morphing to realize where or why or how it happens; panting at ponds or an unclimbed miracle where a soul is aching for freedom. such public privacy as assumed for abstracts—so disgusted so concrete the countenance is scientific. as proud creatures to have our thoughts where to listen as walking northbound. by presidential anguish to sound so different while one would never escape his corps. such gelid scars such desperate attempts while we ask desperate questions. (to write off every death as a misclassification—it might just work!) 

to need approval or to die alienation while it meant nothing before you. but a drowsy woman but a reeling woman while devastation is crazed into lunatics; the bounty for deserts the mountain for music with symphony extinguished by sound. so latent or listless where words unthreaded his ego. to know I need you as needing respect while dangerous does as deceit would exist!

wheezing or numb or too aggressive to fit in.

where mother just died or father followed while dreams nudge or scream or attack. by volume by spoiled fields where ancestors would dance in silence.

so shredded so endemic of catastrophe while America would seem shocked; our amazing leadership our amazing demonstration as refilmed or trying unable to harmonize. such fuel in daughters such zest for humans so destined to recreate—as a living vassal or a dying vessel so vandalized inside.      

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...