sunday poetics

Darned sad dandy in and out of sleep damned by the lack but not needing it, not wanting it, too heavy, too jealous and sorry and scared of deceit, plain.

Fanned down and up, brain sorrow for separation, change, being rooted in expectation, exceptional levels of thought and desire are what make me me.

Be, boastful, be bored, waver outside and in between satisfaction to hatred, contentment to disgust, naked in a rustic card game of sexualized faces baring our nipples to mean a level of clandestine friendship sought after for ever and discovered in pairs and homogenized suits.

The macabre drama unfolds.

Incestuous infatuations are more comfortable so we fuse and depart achieving something that appears more successful but it’s a farce damned if we do, damned if we don’t, kicked out for drawing pictorial representations of our love on your thighs, nose, and forehead.

Circle marks the spot.

On to the street, out upon the land is where we are exiled to find wet shelter, dusty habitat but that’s okay, transience is a mental blessing, you can’t wage wars—be entrenched in them—if your letting the leaves be your guide, the rocks be your bed.

We hadn’t asked for lion roars.

They came to us, through us, because we were “good people” kharma believers and achievers licking mango and avocado stones until licked clean because when we open our eyes we see each peeling layer, locking and freeing the inside parts to render a hard fast conviction.

I took the weathered lines to mean an attainable peace.