I can’t think. too
many windows. I feel a draft
inside.
haven/haunted houses. or disastrous ink.
she frowns. I should
try harder. by dear cliché.
we tread hills or
count indifferences—to
wonder! a bit
contrite. an old lover. where we
open an entrance. “It’s
a journal; It’s wrong;
but damnit—I need
it.” so unfair to self, where
torture becomes
beauty: I fall against a settee.
by zero response
by plural passion by belly—
to have awakened
in clouds. such pearl skin,
or saffron knees
while I fumble by cowardice;
too needled or too
much wine while we watch
for mistakes … in
time we totter so rotten a draft;
if pain so delirious
such clarion or raw damp ink.
her gut too much
death too little anxiety. if angst
would shimmer. if
reason was detectable. but a
parable—so much
movement such minor anger.
I can’t think.
those damn windows. I feel a
draft inside. it
ruins to see you, it kills to touch
you, for a man
needs you. made privy to
disorder, or made
repentant, as tethered to toil.
if I must fawn, I must
confess, you have a
transgressive body—so
sick inside as I would
die, while you
take lust for granted. to what pain!
as flippant
winners. to speak in favor of our pride.
such a friend-zone
such maxims where I need
what I can’t
mustered. uncooked debris, pure angst—
such lightsome
boundaries, where it becomes stringent.
