Sunday, August 22, 2021

I know You Are Perfect

 

morning comes like synthetic skies most gracious for mystery. one in sheep’s skin, hovering over brains, more delicate than a linchpin. romantic eras romantic eyes a soul enchants with familiarity. most terrific terror, artistic angst, made aside a jamesia.

 

I reminisce on fuses, those seconds made intense, a fair model at love with greed. like sightless climaxes in a dreary town, the watchkeepers are anxious. street life and streetcars roaming the naked city. needing aggression, if to conquer souls, most unfair wishes.

 

a soul must subjugate, as taken in turn, two become murderous for their ownership. I’ve sought consumption. too different for utterance. wanting desperately, never capturing. it seems uneasy, made swiftly, a decision questioning honor.

 

sex is hard to discover. two are enthralled—another couple, same people, it’s more another excitement. or, one is electric, seductive, with life in their bones—made passive, submissive, enduring; another is passing by, laughing dangerously, with fever for a whole generation.         

 

by mental slant, I see differently, I seem distant; I know remarks, I feel pressure, emotion is meant to connect, to persuade, one doesn’t drop out of the marathon. I become suspicious, running through corridors, listening to each request.         

 

many will mayfly, by sheer eloquence, they will have existence.

 

I will brood, analyze, so much I lose existence.

 

[but]

 

I see her, leaving me astray, arguing with a passionate delay. I see her gunning through forests, jogging in jungles, she pets the jaguars, the panthers, with glint and fever in her eyes. I see her writing a vignette or reprograming software at a place unbeknownst to souls; she’ giggling, sipping Moet struggling to let go—this feud in itself, as an existential conundrum, so detached scribbling pure passion. her mind is open. she loves freely. most put too much stock in familiarity. it seems natural. it hurts to skies. a soul might try harder to grow wings.         

 

by dear effusion, destined to die, I need our ghosts to knit into us—the fair attraction, the fairer moon, too much involved with broken dreams.

I’d Save The Reader Years

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