the
lower mistakes, by a gift made dirty, while we chase after happiness. if love
is green, or sex is beige, we wonder what love is doing. I should say gray, our
instincts, our visual, those muscles, her ass, such moving or blocking or failing.
I was hurting, I sprang an emotion, I needed a doctor; someone clean someone
ignoring my aura, someone in passion, as with sharks, that might tweak my
countenance. such darkness of despair such existential patients while we search
or re-bathe in seeking out universal Ezra(s). sand-crystal eyes, noir as of
indirect, or mania as a lamppost an inner guide, where most hurt for its
musicality. I rented a harpsicord or dreamt of her galaxy or hurt while a womb
was shared; some problem in us, some detailed gage, as borrowing energies to
get through—those gates those fences such k9 aggression. I would pout a bit if
unknown by tendency so wild running into cacti; upon woodwinds, a film in its
alley, as to imagine another in every cavity. but life is rawness a mental
silhouette or something reinforced, failing at most churns. the blue sunshine
upon a jasper breeze while jamesias sunk into sewers.
a soul fumbles another makes a
touchdown a team chides you. a man knows you he forfeits the friendship your
woman becomes his liaison. life can be horrors, a treasure scandalous, while
fighting harder seems its intention.
I have dreamt of an island. I need
to walk her exclusively. I realize why we shower each other.
upon aquila or Sirius some deep
restitching. a man runs from woman to woman, he died from woman to woman, never
adjusting his windshield wipers.
I have seen women, too frittata to
resist, while we have different ideas, different castles, concerning the gifts
as understood. but an imperfect specimen, a partial king, raving or rolling for
a diamond medallion.
she sings in showers, her body is
excellence, her womb is unmistaken—she dies by wants, she cleaves to desires,
we wonder how many she can turn down.
