Thursday, May 13, 2021

Leather Disobedience

 

by timbre of the tone by color of its sound—into another city so dear to dying Love is raining. her philharmonic her nightmare such a flippancy. so pathetic so much a slave as we go rounds taking orders. years passed. we crossed paths. a house a husband a child. I do often my sound in essence so deliberate as walking further. too knotted to linger too unknitted inside while a linchpin hangs in balance. many would scream beauty, might die so infused at a sinning moment. frequencies or dear deaths a man enlove with darkness—as she buries insanity wild deep thunder such a wafting season. so much infatuation as never heard you a legend near Downtown. so dear a tease so pleased to surrender such curse in a man without a name. self-possession is bottled, others are just happy, while I keep confusion—those bare blood eyes those hazel lips while it never concerned decency.     ceramic thighs or geranium buttocks with a face too delirious to remain private. as a pirate sung like Jesus won, in arts we need something metaphysical—beyond art beyond dying we need to immortalize. “Do you live, Is it painful, Do you need company?” so much riding so sacred a man would feel like exhaustion; so boxed away, years have passed, Love is alone with a son. they call us cold, but father will return, it becomes hating self.     alcohol or nose dust or frantic into withdrawals – so abused so loved like pain is sweet candy. so many times as to revamp so destroyed with each woman. I crossed a line but it must be real or it tastes like vinegar. to see redwood eyes or baffled she's so damn small while it feels like a white man’s haven. too much to distaste you, too much cashmere, while private agonies eat marshweed. a sinning man – made impeccable delusion, where we assume too much privacy. if in one or assigned to daisies so cursed where it felt panic. I was sickrooms in a straightjacket while life seems fabricated—miles into Egypt like drugs in Jerusalem so many disturbed headed to church. I slipped, it came out, but damn be good or listen to skies.

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...