Drowned world in a miasma of plastic. I turn to love is not just a flash in the pan. I am moody walls and stone borders, eyes on the horizon, the quickening ****** sunset. I try to believe in some heaven that I am here. I should pay more attention. I should bloom like a flower underneath your sun, rewarding you with an infinite unfurling of petals. The night need not crush. It may reveal its stars. The child brides’ shrieks do not always denote pain.
I enjoy words Little words that fit unto tiny cubbeyhole spaces, a word like Key, something you could fit into a pocket, makes other words rhyme and think about secrets and doors. A wooden frame, gateway to another room or someplace else, it opens and closes and clicks and turns and clinks and all from that tiny three letter word. Large words that stretch and yawn and roll around in your brain marble like trying to fathom and plumb their bottoms. A word like Miasma. Miasma Miasma. What does that make you think of. Like a big stinky cloud, it creeps along the ground because it's heavier than air, something soup like, but I've never heard that word used to describe a soup. Or really used for much of anything at all. It's not a word people say or write to each other. Miasma. That's sad. It's a beautiful word. An interesting word. "Normal" words, everyday words like buttons. Makes me think about a button on your coat. Maybe it's blue or one of its shades like cobalt navy or azure. And it's popped off and rolled away under a couch or in a crack somewhere. And we all agreed that that Buh sound was what those round objects made of all sorts of materials that hold your shirt closed, that sound is what that thing is going to start with... buh tuns... or **** tons... how strange. That we all agreed that.
My stool is black again, I've been smoking She said, "I thought that you quit" I said, "I never meant-" cough "I never meant" She said, "You said you could anytime, anytime" But what's the worth of words spoken, when you never meant, you never meant
To give the impression you'd follow through Only to sate the voice of reason in a poisonous miasma of destructive and ambivalent tendencies held too long and too deeply pressed