bloated brains, a running faucet, internal rust … art has tendency, sensitivity has a price, dying
has a language. a fair claim, fairer eyes, and metamorphose sound.
redolent womb, soft cadence, different arithmetic;
like bucolic countryside, like phantom skies, like under-breath sincerity.
coming to life, a point in conception, much connected
to body, woman, and rights. i haven’t the formula, the metaphor is losing cache,
where the womb resides—the queen should rule.
so much omission … the bottom line is control … to
have some sort of order;
the land is in chaos, people do as they select, morals
aren’t prized possessions.
it drives some people mad/ they murmur/ they swear to
take back America/ such language frightens awareness.
the codes are not adhered to, (unless!); many will
vomit first—then rinse out politics. so much a creature of orientation, a
median brain, eating soft media meats.
days are seared. loving has become difficult. most
seem to come together—then discuss meaning. the flame of the blue wick, the damages
of the dear rain, so abandoned to coming back to the anguish.
the tears as they swell, the deep dark maze, at the
cave’s mouth, holding his tunic, torn asunder.
like mechanics, many kaleidoscopes, and the father
bathing the infant—it’s musicology, it’s DNA, the last to negotiate against it.
so endearing, these sentiments, so capturing, the
reasons for the 50 years—the longing naturality … as one taps into something
desiring commitment.
to touch on it:
many desire immortality, notoriety, infinite
sexuality, life as the lust trickles unto fires. routine is human, angering,
plain anti-human …
the feeling, seated, the heater with its
functionality, the rug seeming familiar, the mind moving, chuckling ironically,
desperate—as the body tingles.
no one is right nor wrong—
until injury ensues.
