From
watching you, to inhaling you, to sipping you. The would bleeding, a journey
for wars, never met a person like you. If time comes, sipping rum, becoming
what tries to forgive; isolated, launched, at pads and penalties the presence
of a Dodgeball. Teapot treatises, looking at you, hating that I need you. A
problem in me, a wave through trees, puffing a small cigar. Bolted or Unbolted—granny
dying, to hold her palm, so fragile, such as death, and mercy is automatic;
maybe anodyne, maybe a cure, maybe an epithet slung at unawares; to live loving
life, to become suddenly sad, as to adjust one’s entire existence. Upon a
pendulum, swerving through graphics, to ask if one time to enter—the borderline
reality, so much offensive, unless asked of the midnights. So tipsy, and Love
might intuit, letting life ask its own questions. Thank God, as I roll out, to
come to a home. A tinge of her muscles, her hips, thighs made of iron, to again
come to the temple for repentance.
