Wednesday, December 16, 2020

Virgin Agenda

 

when I yawn, I pause, I think of implication, I remember my life. it seems clear, a muddy diamond, a filthy compassion. so many scars outside a scream while panic might arise. seated at a table looking at placeholders or debating those years crawling. by perfect exclusion so revved over mediocrity while anxious to engage. thoughts we engrave. silence we impose. feelings we reject. pills we take, or liquor we quaff, such different, profound negotiators. I watch manipulation. it has been a scream. we expect a certain response. so, abnormal is deviation, as to something premeditated, where one must presume a deficit. I say it to analyze it. it has become affection. where false pretense induces favorable behavior. one shouldn’t be attuned, or too alert, one must just be insync. but evidence calls for mindfulness, or wits, while some would disagree. such virgin soil, in a stronger sense, this is why many pursue our youth—as finding existence where one isn’t watching, to have life in our courtyard.

I walked a conduit—I listened to unclear thoughts—I became a certain direction. our sun glistened our moon was over yonder our stars were there but unseen. something petty as painful something a curse to its followers. such rage in a child such defensiveness while I refuse to assert, it hurts. a couch in there a pillow in there a broken television set. a mood in me a detention center, a place of refuge—a family absent a family present a family—my first orientation. sullen into a trail watching birds dance while disappearing into streets. an alley a cat an old washing machine; such disgusts such neediness while trying to meet demands. a child surrendered by sure negligence while a room is fraught by mistakes; a swirl of smoke such glossy eyes while faces would sweat in desperation. such diligence to obtain it. such absence while interacting. where one becomes alert through tribulation. a soul interrogates. it learns irony. it calculates through indifference. it’s too affected to be clear—it’s too hurt to rationalize—everything seems irrelevant!      

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...