life is likeness,
patterns, comic collages—many say, too many scruples, many say, too vicious,
many are trying desperately.
sweet candor,
caresses my soul. so difficult to unveil. many lies are born first.
the misfortune of
loving you—we’ve thought that—the misfortune of losing the greatest lover.
stamina has color,
has gates, has a breaking point.
a man eats gypsum
feeling comforts so serene in a broken shadow. a woman carries whale bones,
inside is mutiny, tugged, collages are gray. so tender its rapture, sour
rhapsody, the madness of the orator. to undress a costume, to unlock a vault,
so addicted to a human soul.
intoxication. raw
gestures. by contrasts in us.
nectar flutes,
falling rain, it drizzles in my morals.
those tempest
eyes, better, fluidity, understanding futility in existence.
some opus art some
opus matrix, so lost in our aftermath—like sullen children, a schizophrenic baby,
a bipolar kitten.
needing succor,
needing reality, needing to need a decent spirit.
into caves
listening to piccolos reading petroglyphs. as calligraphy, near a snail, a
mantis is chanting.
by shapes in tone,
to hear when it’s ethnic, to understand why it’s academic.
sweet unborn
consciousness, rising into consciousness, where most arts are subliminal.
sodden leaves.
sodden scars, sodden lakes.
