Scratch Until Flesh Tears

 

strange hunger like cursed wolves many half humans—bled like demons dripping purity too removed to die in you. ghetto omens poolhall pain a friend we wonder its definition. fighting like heathens, unbred for poison, eating syrup. a death in me a mother in me a feeling left to bankruptcy. begging for peace, hung on a tree, the land is cursed at midnight. have we heard, in a gut, a curse is mostly submittable?

 

I sit in boxes petting a cheetah conversing with a leopard—so philosophical, so psychological, when speaking of changing spots. I’ll change. How? you require training you ignore it. hard stares, deeper breath-mints, so solo they see a casualty. so much causality much nihilism, at poverty too long to act normal. like a robot, no room for performances, where one falls uncertainty. her eyes glisten. she needs realism. I’m t knees faulting what I achieve. a burning countenance, a little office, they wonder what I speak about.

 

cranberries with gin. a cigar with honey. a man’s woman asking intimate details. we disappear in fire at a furnace close to fruition. brown crowns green tenderness I’ll never leave you! by a red fox in a blue haven too sexy to feel correct. much losing in sinning, much winning in transgression, Love trespassed my morals. I’m losing ethics, encompassed in needing, we’ve too many regrets.

 

drinking wilder waters riding a raft so undercut in her entrance. begging for mercy. looking transfixed. so much gods kept him evil-innocence.

 

so unsung upon a gumdrop too reversed to unsin—sunk into a situation, Love dying so gripped living wilder than rabbits.

 

I’ll be last in line, more passion than myriads, hard-times in bleeding excellence. a pocket filled, a chain on neck, too much jewelry to feel rested. a cold altitude, a colder attitude, expecting others to cease with devil-art.

 

whose to say in you, whose to play ball in you, whose to be granted sex in you? I never cared, until evident, looking for forever open to liaisons. it seems self-prophecy, insufficient glasses, aches in bolts screaming.                     I walk further!

Risk Pleasurous Dementia

 

rain dropped it felt like bathing a kiss an eye as it might wink. a good curse so addicted like strung into a drum and wrung completely. hot helium at womb devastation, a woman might know mesmerism. never as bitter as days absent from you. a man says he knows not love. he speaks with passion concerning love. either taught tangibly, by book, or deepened by stars and cures and being too good for souls. firewater aside a firebrick next to fireworks. so danced into excellence too sweet to become sour, nonetheless, sure suffering solemnity. many nets for one fishing for good pain. addressed as awful. eating dates near gates. Love is hectic, a guitar magician, a communing mystic. so strange the land. keep killing to love skies. bringing out honeydew melon. an Israelian garment a gouge inside a feeling made for greenhorns. if to adore, to fall deeper, how could a man breathe? as a snare for hearts, eating heart-chops, at a backdrop sipping heartwine.

 

too much to settle too dead to live so alive it’s confusion. swirling chaos, swooshing interior, so captured by creative sullenness. by opus despair. by intimate anxiety. by confidence in clouds. rainy eyes a temperature in water, a soul baptized in you. fierce fire, filmed flames, fluid firebrand. like living forever in one second life coming to its crescendo. so candescent so terrible, so much a tragic perfection. gauged to die. you bring life. syrupy sleeping misery.

 

                                                            oh taboo beauty, kill like a maniac, undress immortality. I partake of spirits. I ride a firebird, a sea-creature, an inner chameleon—those days at birth, so much newness, what souls’ lust after—a mind embedded—with fences and forks, framed in sensual sanity. by colorful fruit on some tropical island our quiet storm. a hand filled with nails, a haystack filled with dreams, in a farmhouse filled with laughter. eating sugarplums mixed with apricots, near a plate filled with banana bread. just love and stay sickness, never die away. take us for faces much risk in dementia like rooms upon skies.       

Dry Water

 

they count uncertain fire into seas so much a touch shall deplete us. I love like centipedes at a fiery pace alone in miseries. never have we watched it, to know it kills us, while continuing, nonetheless. I wake up, freshen up, spark a cigarette, get ghost. unsatisfied as reclassified, never knew it would be unsentimental. trying harder, laced by tyranny, fettered by expectation. running into serenity, saying its prayer, too low to act sober. a fever in her heart a luxury of diamonds, so splendid in its destruction. a fierce feeling a framed fracture, a feature as feral. I know what hurts. I give what aches. it was so long into disappearing. heartwine with another, seated in resonance, unbehaved in thoughts. tender communion tender pains like concrete above his casket. breath low. a human foreclosure. skies begging some element. a degree of joy, dipped in displeasure, wild furious flames.

 

humans are like metalwork so stern so much a product of manufacturing. our horizon is bleeding our treasures are screaming so close knit it begins to unravel. like a contract, those rules, where relations depend upon vows. so much a moment pure pottery we hope clay doesn’t crack. a palm of ashes, a dot in souls, sweet sugarwater—so absent at moments, so cursed at seconds, sudden into a state of confusion. abandoned to her touch her scent her agonies. a stronger sense a rich avalanche falling into love’s abyss. radical cries, raided centers, at a Crenshaw railroad. so much love as hatred. so much dry water. so much whet nonchalance.   

We Have Some Curse

 

sadness made stronger a man eclipses his night anger. a chapter in skin written in acid—fire to soul, trying to waltz passed—much terror on wings.

 

days are wilting, nightmares increase, most mouths are vomiting. to know as we exhaust, like living a deserted kiss, like fierce sloth-grass. weeds made edible lime on rust, purity in something filthy; a cut in those years, a premature affair, amazed how we decline. seesawing gently. eating a diseased pigeon. many watching in pain.

 

seated near angst, a broken roundtable, many worshiping dead beliefs; holding to eras in a time reversed, traumatic sinews—to scream in disappearance, to reclaim mistakes, so human a man can’t live. to get close, like it meant life, a person is called sentimental. it learns, it stops hurting, it turns to sheer disgust.

 

crossing harbor into seas alleged as a dying crux; infused, trying to see, at edges leaping; a soft soundtrack, a paleolithic curse, listening to mice aside crickets. a man will adore her. her will try to live her. he will never be certain.

 

much implication. many fiery flames. a man will try to adjust his fever.

 

sea teal groans, blue-green skies, a turtle will admonish us. as racing elements, winds, fires, waters, earths—our caramel deluxe(s) our ham with bacon, so naked on your lawn—yelling, tossing dirt, rending garments asunder. a rough sackcloth, at something deeper, goatskin in sheepskin in desperate agony. unhappily gleeful, a palm at its nape, a body heaving anguish.

 

“I love you.”

 

we have some curse.  

Buttery Breads

 

precise indecision, as never a wholesome prison, I can’t abide by just you. a gut man in a caravan as dropped to quicksand. bleeding in his palm, our measure of love, so many dying in fields. collapsed over, sweating, heart screaming, slapped by a hickory stick. many mad at me, many unknowing me, like pain isn’t our rule. son deranged, daughter pregnant, a life we can’t live. finding it works, blue-collar living, or white-collar excuses—plagued as dying, cotton like candy, tobacco fraught by tabasco. Love is fine, a web in a net, most don’t fathom how humans think. cultic trembling or eyes screaming or hating the man mother is dating. deathless abuse so caused by violence most continue existence.

 

color is at war merely in perception like minds make color. a bitter man a sick man so many times I saved your life.

 

mandrill laughs running into South Bay, driven by a mythical radiance.

 

so dirt given, so ghetto high, looking at some failing to know self—like trying to become at trying to be a woman, so pulled by momentary/monetary goals. a man is a maniac. he tries so hard. he reknits azure begging for skies.

 

over figs a smile over guava sweet hatred much a lotus for Buddhists. a song of silence a race of ghosts while feeling faceless—by graves in unction in bleeding to remove you, with hell in me, for I can’t be complete.

 

a garment was at your shoulder, I saw a collar on a woman, I heard omens in our signs. dismal I AM, suffering inherently, monogamy an imposition. I select to die with you, I demand to carry myself, I never touch another. some are gifted, like flying lunatics, they hate those trying to un-butter their bread.

Concrete Bleeding

 

I got sin long wages of transgression like a demon turned angel. I sense it at a distance so bedded in intuition. friends died. dirt, mud, grime, soul. a team indestructible, invincible, trapped in a gnat. Love is fire, I feel holy, she demands a god—the life of father, those regions in mother, I have nothing to give. chasing visions so close to you it must feel like existence—touching womb touching tomb so damn unseeable. richness at pathetic tragedies so many dying in Georgia. I was needing us I was screaming at us I was trespassing us. white flesh a black soul on a flute like a guitar. white on white like sunshine on moons so much a flame into space. it makes no sense, holding you hostage, like some pathetic tragedy—couldn’t let her go, begged to get rid of another, with pain in something never the great prison. south riding north working an eastern region—a cloud with rain a field with bleeding a woman he would never mate—as critical functioning so critical in waves, like looking, giggling, filled with treacherous betrayal.

what has you in a wheel inside sawdust blanking out?

I imagine he dances like weather so tender still at lusts—driven into ghosts so underground another home for concrete bleeding.

so in between so many flights with lovemaking sheltering longevity.

another bastille another’s intuition, at blockage carrying bags of indecision.

as a last thought. it’s not love. something in a strange dominion.  

Boulders Are Cracking

 

it was years those cries like dying twice a day—to hurt with needs filled with greed blasted off a number of woes. cedar in his room cypress on his window muses looking inelegant—a trial next to havens, a gut in tales, a partner had a child with a main Love. disappearing for months. reappearing in gold. too much to accept what we hate. something to him. something to his domain. can’t stand his breathing. following my lead, squeezed into a box, a man must break his ceiling. Love is respected. she does it right. a soul is given lumination. so ferric in charms so alphabetical in arms, a man gets sick trying to own her. but more to weeds, lemongrass, or sameness of growth. healing like maniacs crazed like omens at wilderness in a rush.

 

I met Lucy tripping into a coma more richness more deaths more tumble dirt. I loved like a selfish fool. it was love in a prison. we must act in a sense to live. many toils with Cleopatra, many executions, a man must know his boundaries. so unhurried a touch like living a code like unto deaths; a breath for passion, a yogi for a home, knowing it can’t be eternal. an old man is there a guru in havens a feeling like a shaman. as an oarsman in a boat like gators next to inner hands. trying to fly trying without drugs laughing it felt terrific. much innocence, a curious danger, one would never believe it. a true seeker, only wisdom, willing to suffer to find it. an existence, spent or re-spent, like fire in a cup. as a schoolgirl as a nun at an island right in our writings. many chores at an inner door while sweeping a roof. so embodied, never a deeper chocolate, never felt that way. virtue for goodness, intellect for chills, a whisper for a decade. hard stares those graves, abased in a dungeon, with most problems moving in slow-motion. by sorrow walking, it grabs a drank, it sets up shop. in truth, I imagine a dream, somewhere in stars, isolated, so enthralled the boulders are cracking.       

Many Need To Outwit Exploit

 

I sit with windows as lit in indigo splayed so cut thrust into precious music—she would die with pain so alert again as never more a sensuous believer. I gut my intestines her voice is purple, it’s early morning. I reverse heat I shoot heat I laugh in tears. it made me mad looking at each other, holding global(s) inside. a galaxy for you, a penalty for you, I was raw unbelief for you. those lines they mean too much so sweet so evil a man dying on himself. over an apricot pulled away as not to ruin a shirt—those eyes screaming, so in fraction, it’s never our fault. a cave bleeding a petroglyph with us as in our empathies. a dead feeling is a bad feeling like killing her goodness. humans seem differentiated. we take to situations. it might mean more with another. so kind, we never see it, like boiling noodles. a pen crying at ink devastated so much I wasn’t on gates. so hard so easy so much vulnerability. a man is naïve a woman is naïve, something is hungry inside. a pathetic man, a pathetic lover, I need to feel Jesus—those hips, those legs, those breasts, they mean nothing without feeling Mary. many years as a rapid voice, so cursed to have met, it was predicated on aggression. humans seem differentiated. so split asunder. many those paths we endure.

 

I was amazed lately. a promiscuous genius outside. just wanted to tell of a rare Love. a coat aside a furnace. a jug amid some wafers. our minds probing authenticity.

 

years gunning pain. alert to skies bending. waxing like dying to live. a mouth of music. a game of abuses. finding is alike to keeping. a battled man is a crazed man, it might take an electric friend. rushing to see angels. ravished by existential. pausing to find Abigail.

 

I sit with windows, a pair of glasses, a skylight—laughing at it, filled with remorse, but pleased by fruition. a complicated winner, a losing pianist, at drums a voice from Greece. never asked. never needed more. given more confirmation. a person must ask, is it for me, or has the liaison become more than exploit?     

Much Grit To See Success

 

but a sinner partaking of demons so naïve concerning heaven. much to die for at much to live for the throne bleeds its crown. so dignified so hectic so sensual—a man gripping his tongue, never said much, unqualified for an ideal kingdom. slithering, hissing, coming around on a scholarship, Love is a genius, sorted by seduction, biting, fearing, so brave. a deadman a madman as graduating into hell—fire reversed shot into a jungle a leopard running into her spirit.

 

but an angel partaking of sin like watching until it hurts—the flame of our castles our interior mistakes sweet deliberate inculcation. a man baffled, a soul battles, looking at God’s Banner. a table full of cups, differing in sizes, only one said half full. Love has strawberries, cherries, watermelon, laughing, giggling, suddenly seized by tears—a feud inside, a weapon inside, a man just died inside—courage to get up, courage to make it to a psych, courage to exist in much a crooked design.

 

can’t find some people. others carry the weight. most appear when celebrity has been captured. things we undergo, reasons we speak, casting pearls to swine. a friend doing his time, unlucky in pain, we seem too fierce. most angered. most deceived. we do what we endure. some disagree. life is splendid. on my soul sits an umbrella. deep in shadows thrust into luxuries too young to cleave. maybe a good person, a good woman, what in hell!

 

militia living. terror living. at equals with rivals. a brain at work.          a man lives his sin a woman became her angels most will die unevenly.

 

a book sat on a chair. it was Machiavelli. we read a chapter. couldn’t do it. couldn’t acquiesce. most weren’t listening to me—not that man. take a look at me, lost it several times, chasing like a man in his Navy—gunning with words shunning myself much humility to make a little sense. Love is living like craving popping big smack. we might laugh a bit eat a snake a pit much grit to see success.    

The Last Cotillion

 

I need a shrink a doctor a damn shaman. I live like danger, I share my inheritance, by dance we chance a problem. a thousand tasks late at evening a drink a stranger it begins to ache. discover paradise a sober woman so aloof it means walk away. eating sawgrass walking marshlands rereading something theological. so toward in an untoward arena at art at behavior at restrictions. it’s different for privileged, same situation, different analyzation. sandstone eyes always saying yes, a fool starts to feel privileged. over a frittata at a spot so dark in its crevice. a lady in red atop a channel steeped in her shadow. so sublime as a soul is weaned, he enters into a grown woman’s world. damn near a shoebill. it means so much. in its second, moment, a light bag of filters. an ankh on her ankle, a liberal philosophy, she spreads her affection: in tone, in body, such rising climatic frenzies. I felt proper feelings. I was dizzy. never a bad ass woman. too much fatigue such rising greed I slipped into adoring a mistake. over a harpsichord coaxed into a room so ravishing it frets to rebirth—a feeling a soul while desperate to have those aches. forgive unnecessary allotted to unnecessary made so very necessary. a touch in a basement, against a wall, letting gods do as sinning requests. so baptized so ordinary in an extraordinary environment. symmetry exile like years in bondage for one woman running amuck. one might smile, think himself immune, in a building one day—to meet Mrs. America. unphysical dynamite at a channel like wheezing, in a stack of hay a trillion men chasing. if to burgeon (grow), if to get into a trance, if to write like no soul has ever created.   

Ingrown Genetics

 

I gun out, a cigarette between fingers left hand on the stirring wheel. a daughter at heart, something dear at soul, a hurricane at the layer. inside worlds as most concerned so many ways to read a mystic. a language in fire a flame fierce in mud trying to swim—like a sea of quicksand, screaming at faith, most elements turning black. a reaper laughing guts upheaving I’m tripping in a hazy ink. palm prints rushing shores a number of ghosts with lion heads.

too much of that, spacy in silence, achy for clearance.

at the farmstead fretting a séance too many going wild & crazy. trying to undie trying to reglue, at a feeling like undone. mythic emotions over oysters with a giggle in address; a tequila shot, maybe two more, we’ve been at it so long … thickened phlegm couching up a dinosaur, wrestling a gila monster.

it felt uncouth racing doing a hundred, sped through demons, cut lanes, a man transfused into a creature; blues blazing liquor scented I wake up sweating. too long a fever too long to feel easy, most get a little nervous.

Love is gifted person, good at kinesics rolling into immortality. I keep a spoon as for scooping debris so much gold in soil.

our public domain our intrusive internet our Haagen-Dazs with sorrows—so stolen from self so aloof from mirrors so steeped can’t return.

our condition, as it made fire, a soul carrying a country creek.

the nuts & bolts those features like bored with repetition—estranged from my hands, at a date with my heart, too long since I unknifed my back.

ingrown genetics. ingrown pitfalls. too ingrown to skip a generation.    

Venom Firehouse

 

I’m out the fates eating berries drinking poison.

a romantic died a jaded man arouse I feel like destruction.

I need to curse, it allows for vulgarity, too much to love you.

I gave a ghost I ate a hearse like mythical magicians. never a greater friend, so many eating remorse, as forgetting goodness. hear it in guts, drums from Africa, I bled with a Zulu.

so much easier to die so hard to live like a mind-bending-exosphere.

too much apostasy, like hating meaning, I chunk a naïve self—thrust through a sword hanging a spine bled the fuck out.

Love watching, never in mind a class A romance. so candescent eating asphalt like a deadman came to join the Masons.

thirsty for medicine our society anti-pain while not many are growing.

hospitals filled like mazes, too many on Thorazine, I became rapture in a snake.

most are poly-amorous at ecstasy mid-nights, today was meaning in emptiness.

if I adore plus balling plus high—would you live for me?

so unconscious such sullen beasts, so fucked out, I accept everything!

a man searching as rolling front-streets as hoping for deluxe fries. so angelica so artsy too much to disbelieve; an arid wind, a cutting leaf, stuck in sadness.

come cook with me, have children with me, look inside to find me.

an aura bleeding. to see the truth. people often can give a fuck.    

By Garden, Love!

This poem, loosely, a sonnet, is from years ago when I started giving consideration to writing contemporary sonnets. I edited again, as I do every two or three years, it comes from a place when I ventured myself a romantic. I have come a far ways since then. It is more a contradiction at this point, but a bit capturing.

  

She ate purple cherries, flared a flute, I offered dates,

She blushed. This feeling—a martini, this height—a

Resurrection. I mean not to thump Bibles, my love: Are you

Wisdom?  We laughed as mystics, danced a paradox.

Her heart, mango-peach: her taste guava. Yes, we kissed.

Nevertheless, the art was aqua, a grayish blue. We smiled—

A tulip, cried a rose. Her soul, a raspberry pink: I partook

The pain. We nibbled—strawberry figs. Our garden, an

Orange-brown. Passion trees, a thousand plums. We ate—

A pear, necked the winds. Such lavender breasts—a beating

Heart. We gripped mud, flung a rock. So much by us

Spirits: alive a flame. Such as fate: a snake by fruit. We

Opted knowledge, athirst—to see. Our light soul, a tenet

Curse, thus, an earth, by drench of blood.

Like Lungs In A Voicebox

 

aloof from self not to injure self, injured, nonetheless. needing to believe, needing a self away from self, strong in unspoken tears—born to bury mother, alive to inhale mother, a problem with anything. carving spirit, dwelling in soul, waiting like fidelity is easy. much hubris in silence, much tolerance in love, so damaged softly. a fret in sound, grounds cracking, just lost everything kept me strong. a madman filled with madness, acting like a lawyer. met my windmill, unveiled a terrible truth, most are for anyone—some are for a few. by strength to rebirth some semblance of an individual inside. a late night, seated on a swing, looking like running forever. the dead in me became like living in me, so maladjusted. aloof from self, not to injure self, injured, nonetheless; baffled, battled, at loses in winds—relocated, surefire into a storm, when anything sways a women’s ears, anyone into a stronghold, no need for credibility, I wash walls. I just reburied mother, I talk to a dead father, mother keeps rising—like gates on a fortress, like doors on a Ferrari, like lungs in a voicebox. a bit displaced, complaining to myself, I get tired of hearing it.

 

I put so little on you. I treat you like a younger person. I disavow feelings in a void. losing parts in self, losing music, listening to hurt, anguish. laughter is waning. denial has died. sharing seems elementary. do you know, why a person gets married, because heaven has given its reach? we share heaven. we share each other. nothing is ours exclusively. deeper hurting deeper insanity, maniacal language, laughter, guts into skies.

 

trials, tribulations, more wisdom, more pain, watching some never grow. our cures our curses our abuses. at merry expression, compelled to sing, so delighted to have met faith—a cut in his stomach a rifle at his temple, with energies swooshing, swooping, surrounding his instincts. to love like wilderness to hold tumbleweed, as all witness his return.  

Dahlia Paradise

 

daisy coffin, a snag for me, melodious fragrance. I glance at a sheet, I feel zeal, a second, it passes. I rethink a begonia, orange eyes, much exaggeration. unthreaded a twine broken into a seam, her anger is ebbing. a pyre of firewood, an inside ambulance, an overborne apology. the Dahlia sits. she reads softly, slowly, carefully. she wipes a tear, colors a damp swamp, giggles a little. she unplugs a violin, reknits a suggestion, shakes her head at a thought. pure paradise to contemplative souls; an untold fable; many tales upon our tables. we disputed over a word, it was “nautic,” it was a terrible/vehement unveiling. (more to fog in dense clouds around corners up hills into valleys. a few pauses, as debating structure, meditating upon a zinnia.) inside green water dwells a turtle, swimming further, seeming agitated. another distraction, as Dahlia flits, as paradise flies—those concrete emotions, inner regulation, hanging by a rose—eyes in nemesias afloat in space, touched by concentration.

I might fib into a prayer with no understanding of being wrong. maybe a twinge, maybe a fire, maybe we refute by argumentation. many orators, struggling in vain, fraught by vanity/pride, watching paradise fighting consumption, thus, ignoring Dahlia.

I might unpack weeping aside a willow tree underneath a shed.

running isn’t feasible. asking is blasphemy. shooting voltage might feel intrusive.

our tender hearts, receiving absence, unsure of full rejection. maybe as best parts, I take to a pen, I braid mind-jute. too much to confess, as needing a feeling, unable to pledge by separation of coffins.  

Particular Ribbons

 

magenta glands upon sad cries like ghettoes abandoned. eating locusts reminded of goodness amazed he lost his neck. reborn at pills partner held patience so much easier to hurt. too neural to ignore too lovely to escape too desperate to forsake. I found a truism, in this jungle of ghosts, followers will find others to cleave to. life on this path, doors are new life, prior to investigating the room. must find what works. must disappear. must outgrow a guru. a feat in pain a trail in a mile with hell neatly made edible. a little self-government. a little healing. wheezing deeper contempt. I shook sanity I laughed at traumas, all my own. it was freaked out, I ate with crows, I vacuumed skies.

a bit more to it. so high out to lunch. running back to caves.

a lunatic saint, an interim performance like acting to survive—thrust into deeper waters, bathed inside skin, sinews shedding spirit.

I ask about roots, have we stuck to it, by graces to feature fruition. believing against

sanity, raiding inner lakes, I hit a cigarette getting lost in sentences. much more to live, to understanding, I was more impetuous.

lineage is given a title, a title becomes behavior, like law in a Judge. deeper into a tooth bed asking if tenets are holdable, releasing anything making little argument for itself. a lie. ha! waxing into a damn overseer, a manager, over another’s existence.

 

calligraphy voiceprints.

fiber ransom.

we must impugn motives.   

Too Invisible to Become Famous

 

we shot out looking like heathens so draped in draperies. today is different. today is bad. today is good. a cherry wine a bag of grapes a woman became a legacy. too much to capture too wise too curious like a monkey named George. so much to take so little to give, running through sugarcane—wrestling doubt akin to her guts like roses on a rainy day. a man died for you. a man gave soul for you. a man cried unto a headache. it was low in rain it was depression making love it felt detached honor. lifeblood for passion will we survive? another made upholstery another became a chair another fell hard for his social worker. make it work make it kill make it find remorse. so easy to fall like horses, vying in combat, a lake pouring into her eyes: algae, plankton, a platypus. too cold to find friends. too alive for most to notice. too grandiose to feel comfortable.

 

we made pancakes, mother was smiling, a second passed, she escaped to her dungeon.

 

how to give? how to live? affected by a forty-year-old virgin. try not to laugh, it seems crazy, like anything can make news. a soul shook left, met death, fraught by kef.

 

too much to ask for you. too little to praise you. it means nothing unless receptive.       

 

signed a mirror kicked a habit like filth for you. have we died? is it lethal? are we making passion?

 

a poem ended, a catapult slung emotion, as wondering what you look like. we skip first person, as abated to dirt, soil in his glass, shattered skies in this woman. gods know her, gods ache with her, gods protect her—if she permits it.

 

make it work, a game of fuckery, an appellation for trauma. another like titles, like jargon, like angry.

 

leave me staggering. never come again. unpictured by anniversary.

Needing a Cleansing

 

let it go. it hurts. I just ate a demon. a soul bleeding, I see Jesus, how in hell no one died there? livid like ghosts those rattling closets, I’ve died like headed home. on a gray goose some little animal a team died too early. palms of pain palatial anger I got a fight for it, took danger. leave me running, I hit a fence, I understood crucifixion to loyalty. I paused like cut in twain, a name filthy in its region, others joined in, those tales were lies. I have temperament, I glue scholarships, left home gunning into a brick-penchants; so much to forgive, I’m gutted out, much more to suggest—to take it to disagree with equals a headshot so close to mother’s pillow. an old school Buick a light living life, a backstreet more to believe in. a mango blunt, some purple cushy, it’s damn near like meth; a bottle of lacquer, my man died, I’m doing ninety through gravesites—eyes blurry, tears falling, like hating this damn breath—so early in life, most are in excellence, most are with a fiancé. years, another calendar, so close I knew he hated my guts—hell to it, its life, I hit a University. a little pensive a dreamer with coffins, don’t ask too much. eyelids lit. a gut issue. a pain for one just committed suicide. mother bent out. father passed out. everyone filled with tremendous rage. we hit heaven raising hell too many failed. soil mixed blood. a broken handrail. fifty years over to regrets.       

Aren’t Talking About Mulberry

 a man said he’s a pirate, maybe

to break monotony, maybe to speak

to cultural crops. a legacy in riches,

punishable by death, much futuristic

slave trading.

 

I mushed breadfruit

into an ant hole in a backyard anthill.

 

I do exaggerate. I have metaphors,

senseless, reclusive tropes.

 

by fringe, some edge, looking down

on another me—some shiny eyed

mulatto, some naïve kid, with little

understanding of masking for survival.         

 

call it into question, please search

for identity, I am a pirate.

 

around a millpond next to an old

   tetherball sits a flickering person.

 

her eyes are red, her feet are bronze,

her hair is wool.

 

her voice is iron, made melodious spirit,

her words float on wings. a greater soul

in a broken land needing like flesh a

heart to tumble.

 

many will die refuting insides arguing for clarity. many crops will die on some faraway farm a Jewish boy reading his Pentateuch.

there’s a masquerade close inside, we try to unmask pirates, in a setting needing approval.

 

prose phantoms.

mind ghosts.

parental apparitions.

by natural essence. chemistry.

 

I flamed turquoise cries raging bodies much purpose—heaving hurting so blind so much dying—by penalty by revenge, for I wasn’t an angel—roaming halls, lost at walls, home like liquor was water—a foolish man a fretting man so dead those years—it bled me it screamed at me, a fucking demon at me / skyfall assassins reeking dear damages a man might get so lost in you—would you help him? would you kill him? so little to taste essence. was arrested by you, never posted bail from you, all these years distorted like purpose set aflame. don’t gas-line me. don’t act out your hatred. dear God! I’ve run back to fire—its disruption it bled thickness against healing.

by impulse by laws by courage those years so deceased as a living machine too much exhaustion to make it home. hurt in you burning skies shivering coppice a sign might mean something different.

I needed your rage and pain and dangers like galloping for Civil Rights like hanging on words like dying ain’t natural!

by science to claim humanity like a trance to find rose colored diamonds like Jesus just pulled up in a Lamborghini. “Blasphemy!”

I was sick in a sickroom most laughed I had hell coming back. it looked easy like ghosts knew his name like father implored his Church.

one keepsake in utter desolation as one coming with fury, made glory, so many beautiful ass horses. one last mistake our favorite remorse like crazy to make passion with that woman, that fevered creature an unmasked monster, so damn vicious we forget her pedigree.   

Remembering Snippets

 

in our capacity—torn from our latch, un-affective desire. as unyoked sufferers, contained in fire, to witness your abuses. trying desperately, uncloaked, thus, naked, looking vulnerable. by apogee of a squall, some storm, reknitting your morals. so pulled away from decency, so much self-loathing, any love is better than absent love.

 

was it a rainforest, drizzling pain, mizzling frustration, angered to be with breath? so dear to us as losing us, settling for pure disaffection.

 

muck, mire, this is our reaping. passionless aggression, this is enterprise. so bolder in our language.

 

there’s a dark conundrum floating into a bright blue sea. it whispers facts over pleasures it curses naïve ideals. plainly, deliberate affliction generates attraction. a person sits in realization, unamused with self, running to return to hostility. abused persons die each time, like listening to a saddening song, it becomes a long voyage. some keep it on repeat, they feel anguish, it’s so liberating. as hating some mirror, deserving some mistreatment, guilty, ashamed, drowning in misery.

 

speaking of undiluted love is difficult. most seem to have different definitions. in essence, love is longsuffering for one person akin to suffering for Christ. we give autumn for horizon. we give summer rain for clarity. we adore light in a gentle/honest creature. I cannot understand true, undifferentiated, altruistic love—as I try to deliver it.

 

ascian souls have no shadow. it’s impossible. we live in imagination, consumed by perceptions. sweet silent worries. coming again to you. confused about ikigai (reason for being). sacred in adoring what’s fleeting at banks near rivers many red falcons. so close to remembering you, a child in his crib, aunty must have been nice.  

Blasphemy!

 

things seem shallow, lacking detail, arousing intensity. a strange combination, it has no root, it’s most temporary, most illuminating. I have nothing but something to dress in words—these creatures, entities, they tend to plead, cry, beg for understanding. eyes seem hungry, I could assert lonely, made by courage. three parts. three dungeons. we call out to faith, lasciviousness, more uncertainty. a man was deep literature. we know his type. most things are incorrect. a drawer filled with watches, a silent/alarming ceiling, an old yoga mat—in brains are echoes, I imagine you sing, I make second person personal. facial awakenings. striking beauty. at a point suspicion has become priority. too much to dream of you. too little to dream of you. too much to appear to you. I pine. not much. I don’t know your insanities. like fresh air in morning dew, our bodies naked before awakening. so core its blessing, so pure its reception, it seems we outwit happiness. Blasphemy!

 

I have many with me, faces/voices from years ago pressing into my life. I have psychs, shamans, yogis, mystics, Christians—they arrange a consensus, a round table, I often consult them. I speak a secret, one we never admit, some things might frighten us; to know depth, style, measures of brains; to feel connectivity, in mere habits, to sense a collective germination. one might say, “Blasphemy!”

 

a caring soul is heavy at portal a grandmother trying hard to shelter innocence. once it departs one looks differently one becomes an evolved, uncertain spirit. a feeding is necessary. feeding self. if not, instincts will lead to pain, a grave. we’re more than animals/instincts, we float/fly/fury into our elevation—to live, relive, to die, to breathe, to love, to hold, to define love. what more do you expect? Blasphemy!

 

I met a person. so combative. walls just listened. recorded in remembering, hearing, “Remember,” something obscure causing men to chase for over fifty-years. maybe a few secrets. we might concede. at least a few secrets. Blasphemy!     

30-Year-Old Silhouette

 

a chandelier is an eagle, watching, listening, hiding judgement. a gatekeeper is a mind, only as effective as is equipped. weather scorches. concrete steam, smoke. neckbones are thawing out.

 

a longer road is a road leading back to self. skies will wobble. sharks will appear. money will feel like security.

 

glasses are keen, inner lakes are drained, then something will shift earth.

 

early dewdrops, a sickle to clouds a release looking to believe in you.

 

most will carry a walrus, better, a whetstone, many will grind self to death. seasons change, personality is unfit, it becomes rigorous dancing. marionettes fill our universe. puppeteers require training. most are good in future sights. most have reservations for good behavior. it wouldn’t be long before carrying your walrus would require pillars, friends, associates. as a pitfall for others, as a godsend for you, in a place unoccupied inside.

 

intellect is suspicious, it doesn’t make sense, one will give benefit of a doubt. tiresome debates, smirks becoming laughs, ambition sustains our futures. how will one weaponize?

there’s a deep need. how will one purchase artillery?

 

asking has its risks. one must decipher through audibles. is it truth, omission, fabrication? —only a listener decides.

 

sea mountains near ocean sands, faces seem personable, laughter tends to ache, beauty becomes a torch. palming a sakura, palming a sakata bug, just palming to escape life. climbing trees, petting capagen(s), feeding self an impression. like small winds, swirling rabidly, we might step into a small tornado. many superstitions many surprises much ado over something normal, incorrect, actual ancient/present activity.

 

it’s not money, nor jewels, it’s art, rain, suffering. to gaze at a person, to sense so much presence, as to condemn for knowing how to enter others. it isn’t fair. affairs, like happenings, belong to details. what would one do with you? could they be trusted? is it life as a permanent capturing?

 

licorice is on a table. a silhouette portrait is on a wall. its art is over 30 years old. so surprised she kept it. it’s amazing what touches a woman’s heart.