Sunday, December 6, 2020

Nib of a Fib

 

by zeal we mean enthusiasm, softer fire, or flaming consumption. by numen we sense a touch a catch a capture. so disparate in thoughts so epic in our chase where twine bonds hay. a twinge inside or morning agitation while one might have jitters; but beauty is beholden our ears feel emotion so otic in its design. a mink oiled a cashmere ink pen or days at something cloying. an old whip—a social whip—a reborn whip! so stagnant as it moves too resistant as it increases—we’ve a problem with biasness. but a fib, for nights are purring, while essence mingles; but a fib, for pain is nonvisual, where a countenance is bleeding. so much indecision so little time while we sense something positive. but a torch to his child but a diary to her daughter but sure dissatisfaction. a sewer of bile a mouth filled with prayer a tendency to discount others. (we drift. we season dwellings. we meet or die or come to our tribunal; we love we lose it was fever for eternity. such hectic hearts such vileness inside as uncultured freedoms.)

            to dial our guts to have Europe as to decide on our maxims. to remember our pleasures as called our sins while we enjoyed them, notwithstanding. or to apologize where we can’t regret it at such a feeling unbecoming. (we would if times unknew such desperate non-composure; too early in its life too exposed to its memory or hassling, tucked low, trembling under a table.) by nib of its fib, or nautic agonies, while its fiber feels unnatural. such nebulosity such conundrum in skies to have walked past our sepulchers; an immortal fortune to put life in order to find plans are entertainment. a knife to an apple, gas to an automobile, or fury to one betrayed. (such innocent creatures as we recriminate or pardon something unknown.) a mind shall weep as slaves wept where it’s hard to unpack mud. (such fight, fright, then flight!) our souls traipsing. where dogwood watches. so timeless, so endless. to have given sincerely, as only domestication gives, while snatched, nearly deranged, our bodies disconnected to their experiences.      

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...