Sunday, December 20, 2020

Gesture Is Truer Than Language

 

the anthem blazes or pain is universal such wrath in its endlessness. so commercial or an underground while some are disbelieving—the kinetic mind so kenisic into a territory laden in mind-matter. upon a brain-ski such cascades so enthralled by something he found disgusting. the song of its ideal the ruminating ideation while closer to losing. by fair houses so unsafe where she meant to show dissonance. a body extraordinary a soul unbelievable or a gut clairvoyant. as assigned to margins peering inside where it feels like panic; to need a stranger to fuel his intention as some understanding make-believe. carving sociality nailing morals or congratulating ethics; a feud with mirrors such dear reversal while roles are presumed by intelligence. so mighty into a mouse such courage against kryptonite or spiders possessed by evilness; to spawn a web to catch a fly while society drains a man’s blood.

            lines, st8 or crooked—at raw, rough kindness! the tear of its mistake those razor mechanics while desire is meant for absence; surefire destiny as accursed for religion while most are fleeing Afghanistan. so bold into shyness while beat inside-out as souls flip to find outstanding tentacles.

            to want by russet moon, or to settle under sunshine, while winter is looming.

            those hassles those castles if but to master an old feeling.

            I want more so much in mind as presuming it never gets better. but something prowls a brush with rudeness where something sick takes form. the song of its idea those abandoned guts while a shortcut shall undergo trauma. so fueled so flooded so fixated; by last signature by last assignment while creating such for ourselves. the student becomes the doctor. the professor becomes the priest. or the psychologist becomes the mystic.

            the nun struggles. our logic is sacrificed. we ask of people something unstable. to give so little as to receive so little while angered we haven’t obtained Christmas.

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...