Friday, December 4, 2020

Classical Church Pipe

 

Amen, & it was so!     those lights so dreary while bitter is sweet; sodium skies such as I walk so threaded into angst. to feel goodness or uneasy over someone so gorgeous. to know then this feeling to have approached like losing. godlike affections seesaw highs sandcastle lows. too sour for love too dead for love while bended asking for eternity. such a naïve man, as believing against evidence, where any excuse is normal. irrigated misery elated pride or arrogant happiness. but a kid this wave in a world this wicked while most expect exoneration. winsome black woman so at wars where it’s hard to fight against anger. or such a wrath, embedded in pretensions, while hanging some interior principle. at mind architecture, a garden in a brain, while leaves are ruining wildly. so nervous so determined where words tremble. upon a zephyr or into a maze as surrounded by tallgrass. it comes eventually. it studies itself. it becomes familiar with humanity.

            we knew sirens we hearted a last gasp something is screaming, Alleluia! such wrenching wretchedness so re-bathed, solid wailing, a mother out faithed her daughter. to our church, looking at pictorial memories, so thankful, notwithstanding!

            by current to ponder. by broken vest. such explosive bullets.

to rivers inside to debates inside such a statuesque house. pans frying goat, or souls indebted to sheep, so much ruminating. tiles with witnesses or wings on humans where work is often remedy. an unlatched linchpin a miracle for a feeling while resting might become difficult. a cup of panacea or a jug of lithium while a soul goes astray.   

            Amen, & it was so!     those darker umbrellas those wrangling ghosts such beauty in a soul. to know those spaces or to unriddle pure magic while accused of nebulosity. such cloying lusts such unpleasant mandating while so lost without some adversary. by symmetry to feel good by asymmetry to live writing or so confused it all seems necessary.         

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...