Tuesday, November 10, 2020

The Un-Language Is Behavior

 

to solicit walls or elicit cascades such courage in a fallen man. so mystic as it oozes pouring out her pores—such palatial fingers or pouty perfect essence where dearness is too simple. I need to feel absorbed but functional as we might define healthy. by graph by excellence where we fret ugliness; warm catalyst shame or fervid deliverance as straddling disfavored presumptions. his core as conscienceness or unclean some infraction so tender as aches collapse; substance in dread as existence proves cages while I desire more than I capture. to iron simplicity or to rage against metal some ladder blocked at its third step—as leaping to overcome such decent losing. a faculty in life a modality in mystics where a cultic countenance may alarm us. as to do away in me, as to walk further or faster, while a soul would follow but not chase; those desert gutted camels, our cares for erasers, with marks in red on our souls; our A- in linguistics, our A+ in illusions, or our pass/fail in existence. as a man sullen those days to efface his ills, or such joy persecuted for it should be miserable; those axes such pivoting reasons as a soul might abandon his post; to know a man’s position, as to piano his part, where one is upset the man hasn’t sunk in. to know for furtive essence or to let life go simply as by a river that might cease motion; but a split ingredient but anxious alms while its universe has opened a window.

those creeks whisper nature. those skies are butt naked. while life proves imperceptible. by tension in souls by pores in deception while we wonder concerning character. to resist a person, such a fragile person, where early morning she opens a given thought. to praise internally to keep its connection or to wonder concerning her aura. such a different woman so kept by reality where one is angered by appearance; or to have depth to science this existence where one can’t tolerate its existential. such dear resistance such dear projection while distant from a man that hears.           

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...