I see beauty, to
have found her here, a man without lineage, heritage, nor a name. I have
tiptoeing, shame, happy to have never felt again. seashore hysteria. ink oozing
from a seahorse. the pain of the glory. risking to unveil, rolling like wheeled
boxes, many vases made of seabirds. to have left my soul, to have eaten my
pride, to have some sickroom attraction. I’ll remain silent, like unhatched
eggs, until noisy, pecking outward. the opus of red lips, the mistake in
makeup, the tender goodbye in a one-night stand. I keep re-thawing, like
spoiled meat, I must say, its misery, but I’m not unhappy. I suppose we’re
chasing bliss, some sick arrangement, I have sorrows on my agenda. a little dismal,
a little onery, a tear for attraction—it never lives, it builds in imagination,
it’s cold, gelid on leaves, autumn sunshine with rain. many inner nets, many
mental snares, until it’s gone.
much sleeping
melancholy, while misery is awakened, those sandy brown eyes aside mandrill
some mysterious word for mysterious, my soul, reaching, beating its faith; a
fig tree. a cherry patch. walking through your orchard.
