A Poet is Often a Solitary Creature

I was eyes like my own, or pain like my own, or death so similar to life; this fuse in my bones this gristle in those smiles so aloof to my own; this dead river those dry carcasses our rebirth or incarnation; to die and float to arrange like ghosts so inconspicuous in this big nosy world; so exaggerate fused in speeches like one enlove with Freudian myths; so polite with you while estranged from you for I have only met parts of you; this hunger deteriorating us, this booth refilmed in jeopardy, or those days just longing like a maniac; at filth and brilliance at music and massacre but it has been so uneasy looking into pure expression; our bronzed fractions our Nazi infatuation and realizing most do not scrutinize love; this anti-composure this frenzy in lungs while screaming and raging if but to convince the sun; this anguish to adore you this sweet paramour as creatures bleeding its organization; but love is disorderly and love is fragile where souls invert and come to deadly features; such rites to crave you such permission demanded from you or so wild a man loses what respect was adrift; so Jungian our archetypes such blather screaming affection or lost for screams and deteriorating; this angst in miracles this feeling in nakedness as feathered and tarred and looking normality; if but too surreal if but that smile while broken so deeply it discouraged our screams; as young animals where it would never exist this tension while never such love; so frequent in passion, so infrequent is measures, while frequencies are over the shivers; thereby so trenchant in delicacies, a trefoil and bandits, alert and fuming; this decreasing fury this arising majesty or at some private locket. (I feel primal like essence in rocks while dirt and mud have witnessed our return; this slippery mountain to have claimed Love where agony adventures a different cadence; but passions was electric dazzling was harsh and the ache for righteousness was ruthless. I was tears like my own, or fever like my own, to have found one deceased like my own; by pulse at midday and wandering a strange environment so little to imagine; where nothing the infidelity, but more the intimacy and lies, while a man meant to suggest everything; those few moments so calming and pressured, where a man sees the best in humanity; both keel and kiln as regrouped our hinges re-screwed our brains forming walls; this maze by gravity, this isolated feeling, while a poet is often a solitary creature).

I want lightsome this carefree atmosphere while forced to remain on guard; this frightening reality, this chamber of agonies, but such piety in our mermaids; to realize by aloneness this space giving creation where we need a quasi-replica of our intense drives; manuscripts and prose, novellas and novels, or screenplays and essays; as shunning creatures or august creatures if strong enough to carry the title; woolen fabric abrasive pegs where two people are quite interesting; our hankering nuances our ritualized rhetoric or such risqué habits. I have cared for one I have shared with few but I has lost many; this time-capsule to realize in self those deeper deficits; for it can’t be this luxury, as ever those peoples, where one is vindicated mysteriously; to want like I see, or to dance like I anguish, at something so terribly free. Such rich mineral—ore and debris—as souls wrestling invisibility; such daylight in you, as not to place holiness on you, while asking for aloneness in you; those persiflage sorrows our anxious future or so ensconced by something giving you light; our quaintest woods those quiet trees those talkative leaves—to find us or to die like us at something so tragically beautiful like us. I have said so little but have captured in parts this craving to commandeer our constellations; those odd friends as if to have walked earth insomuch to brave aloneness: writing our thoughts arranging our sensories as we tether and toil.