Wednesday, December 9, 2020

The Attic Is In Dispute

 

raw feral darkness, bold intrusive delusion, or unrelenting illusions. the mansard of brains such innocent calculations, while the essay seemed touched. I drink from a cup. it’s half empty. I take pride in seeing it as half full. blackness surrounds gloaming skies—thoughts become too gray—I take issue with too much. a difficult man, a lofty man, while banshees enter his countenance. clanging chains. concrete fluids. where one might be excusing too much. some inherent property, or ethical immorality, or totally oblivious, plus, amoral. a light feather does it. nighttime awakens. but skies are radiant candescence. sore darkness, sour tenebrosity, most adjust to discomfort—where they fret over oblation. the devilry of interaction, surgeon stipulation, too many irregular stethoscopes. into a drenched apology, or feeling hopeless obligation, or selling compliments. to disagree with aura or to censor the censure where mountains rise as one climbs. so much a surgical exploration. so much twilight impending. while nighttime is permanent arrival. so dusky such dust where one needs obligation. or sly undercurrents such radicalized strewing while a soul is filthy by choice. the murk of marsh those mental swamps while one marvels at something intangible. a forest in spring a lizard zig zagging or a bobcat angling. to angelize a person, where once faced, it becomes disappointment. by raw dullness by dear corners while one must learn how to feel beyond—those spikes those spurs while galloping to Canada. such shaded interaction such determination where uneasiness means one should pay attention. the attic is a land filled with landmarks consumed by skeletons; or a desert filled with carnival aside some flowing reservoir. tender souls in a tender expansion living a tender life. where many are ostracized. they do not fit. they look like shadows. it seems apparent, do X for acceptance, do Y & face rejection. those different souls, so noncompliant, they must learn to submit. such recalcitrance so intractable, it becomes pleasurous to offend them.      

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...