Saturday, November 14, 2020

Becoming Its Audience: What Do Others See?

 

to see what we believe, tears with rage, crumbling to floor pangs—such money such rage where two might disagree; to have died in acts, to have damage to taste, where modalities rush in opposites; to need enough or to need more our stomachs bubbling unto vomit—our nerves cursed, those screeching ceilings, while seated safely. to reknit beginnings to desire purity such hampered romance, for patience is anger, as to see lips, if to imagine cultures where it’s condoned. some type of wedgewood, some dear dogma, while two need rules they can’t attest to; by argent souls by rabid insanity it hurts where two are engrossed—our lies our exaggeration our fetching ugliness; such dulcet cries as tugging a soul to wonder, if it was enough! such brooding glamour such love renegotiated while a man sees his delight. by deep devastation by welcome mat if but to have clearance after cleansing. too crazed too bizarre while we believe we deserve certain rules. (I walk into skies so born-again winking at ghosts—such reestablishment such adoration where one is new such purity. to capture pictures to smile overwhelmingly or to gaze into some roaring future. such liveliness such grandeur where a woman might commit to instability. such dispute for us such rivers to seas where we love passion—by grip of its thigh by sudden to its calve where most everyone is watching: as vulgarities such laughter or so serious by sternness. such flexible reliability such segue while a child might increase us—by borne feelings by airwaves glowing such old, sour debris. a bit of luggage or secluded names attached to emotion-particles. a bit racy a bit crucial where one is sorry for others.)

so much to disappear such deepness while shallow or such heights as lows—those bargains or unspoken loudness where a person is incapable; a closet omen a shift in regards where it’s so silent it becomes moving—by habits of their skies by omission of its origin where doubts are curious for years. to feel bathed or so washed in diamonds while something becomes its audience.  

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...