Tuesday, December 15, 2020

Un-Prison The Whimpering

 

I bounce into felonies I run a mafia I lie to have fun. so committed such dear faculties so removed or so close. the strongest touch, as always aware, such a small vacuumed room. so lustful raiding his interior while dying for being normal. such inked consensus such hypocritical behaviors while trying to hide his mirror. so black it aches so brown it cries or so anti-color. bathed in reality so curt about frustration such signs of a deceased man. to need plurality so much under deconstruction while speaking feels like a sentence; to go so extreme as to lose existence while most seem like waiting for our opportunity. a black shadow a penumbra execution or to love a lifeless body. such miracles so alive so wild into a coma. our battled minds our playful pains such war in a man too old to wingspan. it was flame into a canyon while attitude became a volcano. our boundaries they speak for us so rationalized dependent upon initial assessment. too curious so cautious—he must be something offensive—a fulsome creature a dear departure such oil upon sweet sentences. it can’t be worthless, but it might be senseless, while expression isn’t necessarily appreciated. our fight for force our cage in curses where red tape has radicalized our readings.

            by touch we mean spirit by agony we mean terror or by anguish we mean a heartbeat. so afraid to solidify so excused to suffer so radical upon a cloud. pure berries such fermenting while tender a nightmare. to comb cotton so erased such a building sky. as souls at resistance to imagine it might be if to arrive at a decent hour. I bounce in cries I stroll around lakes I puff a cigarette as a last voice. to touch reality to feel realness while compelled by childhood orientation; the distance of our cage those cavalier executions while we support the Death Sentence.

            soft scented purgatory or softer scented feelers as accused of becoming sensitive. I forget humanhood those scrapes while remembering we each carry wreckage. so much to offend others so close while infused or too crazy to make realized decisions.  

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...