sugarplum roots
cedar scars in sylvans laughing. a ghost in us sweet connectivity, we make a
crime of lying existence. so backwards so much brick flame, so much falderal. a
pamphlet for us a design to live to surrender into so great its rain. like
missiles to Mars, or brains on Neptune, to imagine certain terrestrial mysticism.
more compassion in
you. more human nature. it’s peculiar to be compelled—not a decision, not a
compromise, more tugging to shower you—with love and angst pure radiant anxiety.
rain must come, by existence by challenge, to see a woman unveil for another.
some are coerced
inside—to adore like persistence—like bears are instinctual.
souls show neatness
like dying for
pain, magic
is fruit, damages
in rites—so
incomplete with
someone.
more insistence,
to tell why she’s perfect, to suggest we die, to lose, to let go, it’s
disappointment without you.
over cherries upon
a state of mind, too sore to watch you with another; so much passion, so much
fire, like a furnace consuming intestine(s)—pure combustion.
ambiguous kisses inside
dynamite planets much a promise to exhaust inwards—as petitioning rain, lodging
a complaint, so indebted to you.
