We push harder. We die like legality. Let a soul ball,
let a soul live, let mother resurrect. I was melting, grabbed her wrists, found
in the bass; bleeding near death, the art is war, let the depth see her eyes. We
crawled to win, eating mud, if God would make amends. The child with facts, the
boss one day, he lost every increment—the fire of the snakes, to feel
localized, so many fretted wheels—and a dreadhead like Ezekiel. The pain we
felt. The deaths we skate. Let a soul ball, let a soul skate. God knew it was
raw! The fever of the forgotten, the
mystic in the death, like livid it ever took place. Let the game come with Egypt, let the hieroglyphic
make easy, the fear of adoring the wrong soul—feathered and tarred, laughed in
guts, filthy in the sin. Talking it
is easy, living it is hell, the esoteria, the mystery, like framed in mistakes.
To live good is to live naively, to again die!
