You’re
the centerpiece, unlikely, winning
nonetheless.
A Twig, a tinge, color inside,
electro,
magnetic, so much freedom
imprisoned.
I’ll leave that to stars, Awards, sectioned, devastated, alive, hurting goodly—the
pain made terrific.
Ashes
in an urn, cosmic connection, skilled at the monkey bars.
You’re
a poltergeist, a troublemaker, most hate so much they’ve worshipped unbeknownst
to themselves. either love or hate or a mixture—never to mind it much.
Wombs.
Ocean angelic. Nothing like one trying with ease—desperation, contradiction, as
if the last to taste existence.
We’re
strangers, creative agents, apparatuses, caricatures, on display, they might
send us backstage.
So
wedded to inner beasts, they leak out, the media might go mad: bossing up, eating
skies, swallowing clouds, deep into what the audience is seeing.
Glitter
on ashes, figs aside apricots, healing, confounded by new wounds, perception
screaming its predilection.
You’re
the meadows, a cool breeze, a sweltering desert, cold, lively, too hot to live—I
must live!
Feeling
pretty. Feeling ugly. Feeling in between.
You’re
rebirth—wildness, a sofa on a roof, ecstasy, sobriety hurts!
You’re
a cemetery, skulls ate, marrow painting, bones talking.
You’re
an icon, a gate, a fence, an empty house, haunted by lusts, the people’s
energies.
You’re
the debt, the unpaid debt, demanding full payment, rich, fraught by poverty.
Just
waves, ebbing into social marriages, the human condition, fighting against
nihilism.
Through
rooms, filled, too compact, furniture melting, babies running through walls,
disappearing, becoming elephants, a tiny cub, made into a huge dragon.
Knotted
like memories,
entangled,
nonetheless,
nonchalant,
ignoring souls, more fire,
rosaries
staring, gnats by the dampness,
eating
a blackdamp.
The
song has end pieces, disputing its actuality, deeper into exospheres, made
esoteric, running its risk, reviving its worries, braiding its mixed medias,
its mixed taps—
boss
out!
Trumpets,
harmonicas, flutes—
