Friday, February 19, 2021

Roofs Are Retarred

like fleeing a regime or absconding parole, or seeking asylum; a need for freedom a palm of ghosts, while women are trespassed or mutilated or destroyed. so little to take essence to leave a person struggling, if but to obtain similar innocence. maybe astute winners or re-customed sinners at reverie is some box.

                                    by lethal absence to need connectivity where one is at something uncouth: carpet treasures or floating helium at some terrific story. a preemptive blow while money makes for believable, some uncrowded funeral. visions of monkeys some talkative macaque, we’ve been laughing and hiding for hours.

                                    a bag of macadamias a cup of sundried emotions or a plate with faces.

                        to have something to feel proud of while the neighbor just purchased unsaid item. to becoming intimate, to having affairs in streets, while nothing is solemn.

            over a lifespan screams will appear where demons will manifest. social vampires or receptive citadels while castles are falling into sewers.

            eyes jarring me or passion seeming unprotected or love sought beyond a given second.

            are we meant to be secure, such rubescent charms, while letting go might be freedom? sweet manumission while being sincere, most oppression is external—prior to internal staircases—a social pain or game such Yahtzee such tetras as many disclose on the last day.

                        with knuckles dragging with deep sincerity—it would be experimental!

                        some essence some morgue some fight by breastbone. like a jackknife into a rib where reality slips into a vision.

            a muzzle on a secret a person so close while last to be made excellent. fiddling a pinecone reminiscing on a butterfly, we get angry at impure realities. we pretend at times such documents lately while critical thought means we discuss that? pure fatigue. trying to adore. trying to ignore—those balconies those hills those mountains.

                                                to find one truth, to love is to unsettle, while we never share whistles

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...