I was chewing music or eating drums or swallowing marshweed. dawn was near, I heard a series of birds, a dove comes closer. I imagine they fed me sewer, while I chased sophistication, it seemed to enchant me. upon a wish inside a wishing soul, I would ask for escape. it’s cold when hope wanes, when a man surrenders to ugly circumstances. he must learn to live, to breathe, to exhale—like surfing or paragliding, he must learn to fly. again, eating tar, afraid to confess rain, it’s been pluvial in these alleys. trailing me is a ghost. watching me is interior. a man is never as famous as he believes. I grip a cup, I notice movement, I look in to see my life. it’s water. I’ve been sad. too low to drink liquor. many are located, we find them at gates, so fated, so deflated, so lost to dusty winds. I pull out a talisman. I feel its essence. it’s eerie how connectivity sprouts activity. each line is fever. each tale is remote. each person is present—as energy or missiles or tender aqua skies—as turquoise souls, in topaz oceans, a man might carry a blue whale. metaphors are hiding. by carpet we assess a home. by art we gain liberty. some fleeting findings some deeper dejection, it’s now my season. there’s a reason one is suspicious. most will show out. a person watches in wait until it never comes. one is suspicious of suspension. one is suspicious of himself. one lives in some reclusive hut, some shack, alongside invisibility, like an antique in an attic. I think items come to life. I think clocks have an agenda. I know souls are feeding self-perceptions. it matters so little. or it matters so much. most need to connect to other souls. like yo-yos or tether balls or manipulated artifacts—left for interpretation, left to distortion, some arts are unfortunate.
it
stopped surprising me. I knew it’d become too familiar. like anticipating
confrontation. it becomes normality, albeit, so sick, it becomes expected,
and/or, tolerable. shifts at times, or all times, where too much builds a wall—people
try to un-fragment pieces of a puzzle with jagged misfits; to defang bricks and
mortar, while some elements are human, insomuch as, we might be meant to test
each other. how would a sufferer feel comfortable with one’s lack of suffering?
we might admit it, such writing, prolific waves, opens a soul up to ridicule.
humans are opiniated, critical, if rubbing against shag is unusual, we notice a
sign of resistance. more length or more shadows while many fret over loneliness—in
a world fighting against loneliness.
