The reality of violence, the gut made cold, the lows took precedence—bled out, body trembling, one last drink. It had to be God, giving it all, one last calling. Either popping pills, or sipping elixir, likeness to all suffering. It gets realer, no body pleading feelings, rather pass out with Jesus. Too much ice, too cold, to have tears falling at random. What they made her, emotions, too many sold the ribbons. I could have perished, money, power, something we yearn for; never ready for game, game immortal, idolizing a long life at game; to imagine one home, infested by jugglers, still sipping, ruined by absence. Seizing an inner ghost, feeling de ja vu, if to realize I was here and cannot remember it. If all I needed was her, to celebrate this life, never would it be that simple. Late night moving, to spark a cigar, fretting deep radical emotions. To seem alone, another human with sights, to creep into evidential. So many passed out. I never realized what living means to lose. I hear it in his voice, trying hard to be good, fever in the losses. They left us with sports, albums, grams, bags, and desperation. And Love, bad ass, with her own, like lost at the baseborn angels. I keep sipping, trying to understand Christ, to spend existence dying for souls. I fret to an ultimate slip—looking at her—at Love’s mercy, and Love gave up on love.
