Wednesday, December 9, 2020

Butterflies Are Eating

 

I was mad alive some bottomless pit while incorrect concerning whereabouts. the lies we sell self the mistaken sperm, but a child was born. some problem some miracle while life was sealed in its direction. a twilight monster a grim silence as accursed for something in parents. such parasitical elements such marvelous lies or such ghetto orientations. but water cousins to grope bricks aside a hatchet wrench. so remorseful so evident sure truth in a cigar. deep sea jellies, or fangtooth resistance while unless on camera, I never did it. such electric glimpses such rude determination, while one might sell a false portrait. at sublime wilderness or rhapsodic lovemaking where it meant the hour it lasted.          (I woke up to clean up while some things are a bit indelicate.)          

sweet cadence those eyes such a revelation. certain apocrypha certain alienation with gavels at his future. so dim but chaste so burnished but unpolished as a man seated at the portico. the measure of its museum the theology of its pastor so devout to something benefiting us; to taste a crush to lose particles while so flamboyant with other’s money. by zeal of its halo by debt of its unphysical so graven into a situation—those cornfields those cotton dungeons while so many years at negotiations. such a cloven favor so detached where she doesn’t hear a damn thing! something lost a favored tongue as he spent hours discrediting a man with lies.          so mad at us so delirious with feelings so accepting it aches. marbles fumbling saws re-stitched or sadness so intimate. a man wants perfection his ego a giant where something strange takes its course. I bend the margins, I expect Sunday dinner, plus, a neat, respectable home. some exchange, some monster, so alive for a second in time. our moods our anxieties our catatonic moments. to know idiosyncrasies to adjust to a person (aside for six perfect hours a week). such mad souls such purposed joys while angered one failed to try harder. so fused by our carnival such a picture of cartoons so much a flying mistake. to look for dedication to charm where one knows nothing of the parents.  

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...