Saturday, February 13, 2021

Soul Forest

 

we scramble dialogue or scribble apologies the room is louder. I gaze over a mountain inside’s an avalanche while soft suffering isn’t sufficient. pure needs a wanted savior if to hear exoneration. eyes watch as darkness falls but many can’t see. so little in sight so wild with suppression we examine our pathologies. sweet trance music a thump a giant an ache; so long Despair but Despair runs back, I feel our ecstasy. I was so enlove it felt crystalized it felt like methamphetamines. maybe a bag a bag of mushrooms to gain more insight; or maybe sober striving desperately with Kierkegaard in my favor. or maybe rereading Malcolm if but to re-soul if but to tile the kitchen. a sink rattles a snake is in it, I approach with my facemask.     we meet souls some are genuine so put together; an arc inside something kinetic or a flare for kinesics—such telepathy to ask concerning intuition, such knowing without reason—a flower like us a feeling like that, it becomes raw fever. maybe a few lies while an ethicist where it really got inward. so torn like tied to horses where a madman says the word. or someone never a story never a lie while truth isn’t terrific. a failed negotiation a child with skies or so close it aches softly.     as to gaze gently feeling ashamed to buckle in a person’s arms. one says it’s uneasy, another says it meant nothing, where another says something euphemistic. I re-rolled a cigarette, with a glass of sun-right, aside an oak tree. I rode the vineyard I vexed myself I plunged into an abyss. I’ve channeled Camus, or become an Invisible Man, or asked Why The Caged Bird Sings.     so cured in countenance with heaven reigning while alone staring into spaces. so hurt so often while trying to never give up. to live or seclude, to reap or complain, while most of us judge from an armchair. fierce vengeance where it confines souls such sweeter insanities—

an itchy tongue a failed alliance where he might smile; to sense destruction while we can’t win our winds taste differently. a book of ashes an urn watching an elephant leaking.       

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...