Deforest the illusion: some indecent freedom, a
badness to bone, loving has been terrible—filled with delusion, pash, nebulous
signs, the power is in the rose. Most trivial passion, more deaths in arts,
like losing was a grand experience. I was reborn, it should end there, never as
much tyranny. Sublime misery, personality pains, traits made of irony; brisk
honesty, filthy cleanness, on cliffs to aesthetics to rites; lipping in mime,
anxious in dreariness, proper existential a push towards miseries; a deep
asylum, character of prisons, battling those big bold eyes … maybe subdued,
looking in innocence, the worse of a graph in sullenness; and adoring was
mythical, the mystical, to have one lodged in spirit. Sewer lusts. Sky pollution.
With Passion hung on high. Oh Breathless Sin, unbolted, a ramped reservoir, a
rapid stammering, to have a night alone with Terrific. Symbols blaring, melancholier
than most, sweltering in naked sanity.
