Saturday, February 6, 2021

Women Wrote A Song!

 

tussock hopes by mesmeric cries so enticed by fallen flesh. but we fail we resist to see as rights are guillotined. pictures in genetics or souls upon skies where dying you was living you. so transcendent some movement the trance speaker is a trance woman. a two-edged reality. I need to hear you. I must disqualify gifts. so, purity is dual, mind as healing prowess, but too lacking to play guitar. androgynous gods or asexual angels while we can’t measure spirits. searching for safety, or gynecological sovereignty, in a land losing operations—a depleted/defeated heart, an imaginary wall, but oh so real in existence; to miss hearing you to design to walk from you as a soul running to get home to you. asking questions, reminiscent on female messiahs, while aging in iced love. materializing or actualizing while we learn love is a peculiar word. what has it meant? when was it legal? how has it remeasured itself? time in Europe or African spiritualists while most never included humans. philosophic anxiety. or ethical misunderstandings; while it’s weird concerning an absolute principle. so relative to you, or those taupe eyes, where others are sacrifices. to have adored innocence as it must live while most are galloping through Mississippi—hatchets to barks, matches to hay, elixir to brains; getting rawer such glassy-essence with little will to unveil. freedom was mediumship. mediumship was challenged. it’s been a long run haunting humans! to choose obedience or die for obedience while trying to win. such ruling doctrine such ownership while it remained legal. so tranced-out such dear reality or misfortune as called to perform. to start with a lecture to evolve through lectures with America waiting on a lecture. as hysteria is a rumor a womb in medicine where all ailments are intestinal delusion. such clairvoyance in just a chat while most take over a decade. by personality spirits or treasury souls to have concluded on phantoms. by richer skin by medium mania by dichotomous corsets. such khaki pants as we wonder so dear to angst why did it grow?          

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...