Friday, June 4, 2021

The Curse Is The Definition

 

I was insignificant until adequate or sentenced to coper. iron waves a goose in memory a raven in screams. so high at caves or baseless so much to reknit – like dear pains so steep too many molestations – by church to heal a pastor on fire a preacher unglued – running past ghosts mother raped at ten, again at twenty, like life was so peaceful. too much to bury while believing ideals if but to talk oneself freedom. nickel plated rain a reborn tension, plus, Love never gave a compliment. it seems serene it acts with pleasure while examination points to corkiness. the way we treat insignificance those bottles clanking as cranked so much the fields are penalties. so much worse at dungeons or so beautiful it becomes anxious while gunning to a top position. too much fire while they cheeked the author, for Love was stronger in a pinch. many songs much misery while I laughed all day – a belly ache a glass of Sherry in a ghetto with over 5000 Negroes. a few games a deeper problem, granny keeps seeing ghosts – plenty mothers strung up where a son must adjust it seems like hell today. a nanny passing water an uncle speaking patience or a son destined to turn life the fuck out. a woman of pure skin, a feeling dormant, where it erupted in a curse. but moving further, if love is present, make that visible. so insignificant so gutted so wild at the carnival. a dirty man a filthy platypus at so many alleys – the broken index those screaming alienations while looking at you reminds me of loses.

           

            baptize me I want Jesus I need Yahweh – a fretted bone a crystal marble like losing these higher walls – such interior wire as climbing interior or a man died in his dreams. so sad at turns, but what was given, while many are writing about sorrow. dark pantomimes as she told a story with vampires drinking poison. I anxiety into loving you. it’s angst as deciding you. where I walk away for, we never quite measured. so carnivalesque such a man as a clown where music became raw liquor. those Japanese eyes, or origami prose, I felt like shit reading your volta.  

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...