Wednesday, March 3, 2021

Dear Poem,

 

I rewrote you. I bathed you. I fed you ink. sure-pained inferno a canto a ringing violin. shocked to see deception those stanzas crying those longer sentences. but she forced tears she died tears it wasn’t ordinary. my frightened explanation accursed for flatteries so empty it’s fullness. a deep koan a deeper crush so wild over those cries. didn’t I give you – somewhere in rain – those miseries so orgasmic? over origami raiding ideals while discernment is waning – to wean education to partake of intuition if but few participants. such avant-garde or purer lies so sophisticated in our addiction. maybe a number of identities, each one a chosen person, or tales told tyranny! fetching our flow, sure fever in existence, so sweet our vinegar. ironic satire or paling walls to have fallen so absent of identity. some extraordinary flame such invented cultures such customs ineffective – to run into sunsets or nibble on horizons with father’s guitar. a man might try a woman might receive, when loved seas come chasing. first, we kneel, we then receive, we then arise. war at every corner jogging in brains some phantom in reactions. immortalized, gripping fabric, such flannel webs such silken worms – as alive but aloof while it felt beauty to have loved. a phone inside upon wires even cryptic codes – as mystic flutes or a mystic kiss racing horses in its orchard.

            over oranges aside daffodils next to an oak tree; we dine like demigods we laugh like scorpions we hide in plain view. a northern audience an inner actor such fates at mind-gates. too much to again love as it feels its weight in hatred. so protected, ever so falsely, who shall interrupt?

            I rewrote you I kept knocking but paper didn’t answer – those cherries at their patch or berries mushed violently, or soft into its whirlwind. sinews melting faces screaming so sad at stories. I owe an apology, but never to undress it, while it comes raging forth. those baiting feelings those basement xylophones or a sax in labor. I walk away, palms dripping ink, adjectives lonely, verbs hyper, or nouns abused.  

I’d Save The Reader Years

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