I love
prose poetry, the world loves poetry proper, damn the rhyming. I love women
with soul, lots of suffering, we seem to meet each other. I think many are in
sorrow, young at heart, old souls, spatial through chimes. I was at love, some
sort of love, damaged by love, it ruined innocence. The glory is imparted, by
sheer osmosis, I would love to talk with God. I communicate. It’s sort of one
sided. I do more to imagine what She might suggest. I feel a feature. It’s not
what some become. I keep tripping off of this basic, formidable need. I see
most as ancestors. We’ve spoken. We live to die—we die to live—and that’s final
… such a fiat! The crazed mulatto—the dungeon cousin—the one two yards over.
I
met her in a storm. Surefire pride. I might attack. A man in his fears, using
her past, in order not to claim her future. The pain is terrific, the ghosts
are friends, I sit in morning scars—a famous soul, a met in penalty soul, a
person with too much history—I wonder where Cardi B is at—the flame of the
mountain, syntax disgraced, I don’t really care, but I do.
Bullet
proof, fricking friction!
It
seems easy to know a few people, just reflect on self.
A
friend died in pain. Took his brains, and made noodles. But we need to hear
special things, she is glory things, with many men saying, she isn’t much to
me. We lie like amateurs!
