I am darkness, I am fright
The deep blackness of the night
Nothing seen, nothing heard
Unpopular thoughts, my spoken words
Invisible until you feel my stab
Don't play games with me, I'm a match to be had
What the hell am I doing?
Words are so complicated.
I don't know what this is.
Just pretend it's not here,
Acting is carried away and the dazed, wise boy is alone smoking viceroys. Without a word or a day to change the things that should be running down the shower drain. Wipe the sweat off his face and he could shave to the grain to make himself okay. Putting his act in place, but his special place is forevermore changing.
Sweet tastes of likely lead to an addiction for a boy who always runs blindly, but when the ground gets icy, the boy will break through ever so lightly and even after hopping the fence, love and lovely still has a big difference. So, the boy will keep on filling his bed, forgetting the age of his existence.
Maybe he is just homeless, scouting out a place to live. Jumping couches with people he loves and people he knows love him. Hardwood floors and springy couches aren't enough to break his back, but when the time comes he'll have to choose and face the facts. Business and opportunities can still make you homeless and the fact there's no love makes you almost boneless. This boy is bright and clever and will be able to rise up whenever, but without cutting off the extra cartilage, he may never find a home because home is where the heart is.
You choked on chariots raw. Red egg yolk suppers, churned of the milk oceans this morning you kept.
The lintel of stone turned toward dusk. Some great dynasty of submissive spirits catering your morning
Out on a cart of muse, forms of heaven cannot even hear you. You are a soporific knot in the tale of your Old womanhood. In this infinite Tuesday morning your small black eyes, like an oil tanker toppling over The intense azure sea- shipwrecked, and lost.
Departing from your childhood you slurp Coca-Cola from a silver straw. From the corner store and inside Winter yawns. There is no face, only strikingly beautiful black hair. The body under you is at home in all
My hand's fingers have to fill. All the clothes that you could carry for the two-way adventure. There are
Never enough bubbles between your lips and the glass bottle you have. Only the score of the whistleblower. And the poor symphony you had prayed for into the dial-tone phone, the deep Wilderness, that stiff forever-ago budding from your coffee cup. Neurogenesis lifted from your Fingerprints and emblazoned into this lump of human ingenuity. The hopeless octave that cut us all short.
Every short story that was left untold. There are the brief deaths recoiling in your spiritual architecture. The ****** of morphia has bourn me awake. Inside you are often unscathed, vanishing as some of Tonight's parts assemble you, on you blue is a beautiful color. The sweet retreat that gave you life or the bountiful deaths that counted you too cutely by your side. You are the sun in my black coat. Here is my sea, your sea, you'll see.
Written for Anna Farinola
— The End —