scraping the day from my skin
a testament to how slow progress is (or passion
digging palms white into eyes red
picking out ruined voice -- vocal chords tense dark strings of given-up sound
those earlier screams are lost in broken playgrounds --- broken lines and tense presentation
braided into the day is an overlapping sense of filtered reality ------- mouth inside-
out---of the body springs a well
largely held by a flow of remorse
gathered in a bundle of throw away--
drinking process - pure movement of purpose delayed
(tar jerked and feathered in the street)
waters are level with the ground and rising
life now holds a mandatory tithing (10% of your time of your thoughts of your crimes of your sound reserved for kiss) bent
on only the best exchange
salvation made with full-length mirror vanity and veins (circulating towards another day
weakened by present resentment untold victory of isolation
pursed lips and sullied sentiment
1 comment:
discourse dims sometimes . . .
"a testament to how slow progress is (or passion"
brings I back to wonder -
is passion a progressive entity - longing into self view - the eye of the beholder - still holding nonetheless -
am part of - "pure movement of purpose delayed"
when doing is not enough - rough reasons puts familiar into question - and the lingering natural - only in solitude
"untold victory of isolation"
to witness and to will forward through. no need to justify exposition. drink and be full with dryness. momentarily. merely. peering through the eye of a needle.
mere eternities pronounced. . .
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