another was in rains, pitched to wolves, of culture
those rules with sorrows; a picture as a study, a mind as trained, so close to
whispering for mercy. in dying it was glorious; in travail kneading rituals,
ploughing intuition. to need what never comes [surprised?]. with normality bled
dry, many wrestling over normality, some damned position. I was policing my
thoughts, feuding with family, so many despising my endeavor: [Only Spirit!]
don’t it mean some strangeness of affectation? nay, it means less than nothing.
just souls indicted—livid in existence, eating existential hells. by utility,
right? to grow to see, right? a damn ruse! we have nothing more than our sewing
fingertips. I met a woman, they say she’s a trophy wife, she just stared at me:
I finally said, hello. She mouthed some smart thing, we parted ways.
