Saturday, April 10, 2021

Honeydew Violence

 

will it arrive at noon such plenty into a cup where joy overflows? certain Africa or assured Europe while we fight to adore something foreign. so estranged from mirrors so alienated from justice where love refuses to slip away. axioms about love or feelings run contrary into a daisy such wide smiles. so Spain or Italy or Hispanic. to love inside of you to die right away such passion fretting allergies. but a keeping to pains or riding keepsakes as children etching our dreams.

            such ontic intuition or romance made into a thesis or lovemaking becoming advocation. so, tell me screams or gnaw my brains such a body might be illegal. we run from authorities we hide in crevices we travel to Mexico. we dance our feathers as creatures born laughing. to outsoar our last love to re-arrive while such scents are illegal. too much zeal those curly eyes those swiveting knees. such sway over senses such angst in terror where life is uncommon. so much a huge heart so damn delicious where loving is illegal. a cradle for a child as to give all of self if but to feel too much voltage. as pictureless creatures or dying cheetahs if but most resurrection!

            as sightless, headstrong, invisible souls; at heritage feeling cheated at acres looking for a mule at harps dancing wildly.

            to cherish your engine to reoil your smarts while listening like an earthquake. a gallery of your pictures an arc in your story a fable in your screams. or a silent attraction a whistling teapot as bringing out the sin in me. a kettle blowing an arm waving or sound beneath seas.

            into a ravine or a nearby canyon too late to escape. a bear clawing or hyenas watching – we know us is inevitable!

            to soak up mystery to ask mystics if but traveling this countryside. but where is Love, has she died, nay, she waits at the cliff. hair flowing eyes brilliantly such a glint under darkened skies. so sweet too wicked how else should a man die?

            as a guardian angel as a body fitting the satchel if but spurs tearing into insecurities. a beautiful music a sour ache if but to live as unbleached!  

Grays as Wars

    I never quite capture it. I remain distracted. Years to silence. It would be psychological, to war a man’s brains. To talk badly to non-...