Tuesday, November 24, 2020

Constellations Align

 

it becomes beauty of its death. it becomes certain beliefs. where dying a little is required. I was lost in sunsets or kneeling at beaches or seeing anger as it might manifest. by flame of sky lights, by rapture of its chandelier, or terror of its hourglass. a tussock for its deceased a fire for its hut a rut might last a dozen years. something sweet turned vinegar something salty lost its earth or something appealing became too rough. such alleluia in you, such metaphysics in another, such raw liquor in me. to die like living to campout near a furnace to afire like losing; an outburst a cagey feeling or to speak something might hurt its receiver. as creatures at war, while trying some point, while to expect a little resistance. or a woman, to mash his brains, where she never expected adoration. as many desire pains, for pain becomes love, while I might make a false claim. if but our bodies as writhing in cement where stuck for centuries in glue. by sacrifice of its child, mother’s only beloved, with never a thought to repercussions. such social welfare such geometry made physical while so raptured into invisibility. (so much a face a figure a curse into everything I need; so lost so much courage as to have what I need; upon a petal, into a cloud, wild ass blueberries; those forces where it happened such his majesty another’s remorse.) by literature to escape by therapeutic projection to escape or so solemn into a mistake; to bend corners to try mindfulness as some creature without feelings; to become business our bodies giggling where some remnant approaches its Israel in me. a man last, a human first as second a mystic. so ravished in sin so much a thought while they put this in me. I understood mechanics, I played violin, it was so uncomfortable. I was washed is misery. I was given a ruler. they demanded I act normal. such furious fire such galactic gauges where normal means—I compliment you. but Anger was beauty or ropes were snug as a woman gasped her immortal breath. (a man must die or flourish as both are apropos; such rites to love her such enduring to keep her while many are so ecliptic.)        

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...