I didn’t when it was time—stronger sunrise, arranged
to move swiftly: kisses in dark rooms, red eyes in photographs, softer sounds
and sudden chills. Diamonds speak a language, death must rule, the cycle
demands this—and long lives the ape, so uncouth, longer lives the ignorance …
so exclusive the clubs, writhing rites, needing something sensitive; aglow and
ruined, exposed to elements, transfixed, at a slower pace—to imagine what turns
human buttons. Traipsing woodlands, the sylvan flaming, a neater sunrise, a
darker ring, with souls rummaging spirits. Her poetry is sublime, instrumental
utility, weaving in, and wheezing outward—the fragments lingering, appetites
waxing, and Love is waiting for clarity … caves and arts, cloves and wishes,
surreal fury. A valley of pearls, tumbleweeds, briers, sullen desert, and one
coke machine.
