The varnish of uphill warfare.
If you let me say it as a matter of interest rather than proud stupidity, I will tell you that I wrote this during the puzzlement of marijuana.
I'm floating in and out, seating warmed by the cozy insurance of an oblivion puff.
The world moves as a rocking chair underwater.
Time cuts through like stabs, pauses of of deficient DVD player.
My story quakes and pouts.
My perception flows as a cloth in timid wind would flow,
Jutting its curved body from billow to billow with all the smooth grace
Of a serpentine swan.
When she cried, the vague silk burst through,
And I began to float like a camera in stabilizer alongside them.
He held her, then I placed my hand
Out vacantly to comfort her.
Then his leg came to tumble thunderously against the neck of my hand
And I felt the bone pinch my affection between them.
And it was as it ever was, with the two in their cotton revolution,
Loving and funneling the love through.
I fell in love with them both, alongside them, aside them both,
With their handkerchiefs of tender reflection.
It's standing in the tide when weather called for a tumultuous flood,
Leaning on the air that surrounds the two.
Those deer, those beating hearts of meadow neatness,
Sculpting their rolling flowers, their roses, constancy,
And romance samples wind like a tongue does the other:
Flickering with that heated whip of the cursed candle flame,
Ever made to sway and bend and dance for the master.
But I heard their whispers, grimaced with the very audience of it,
Having so little but envy to tempt the temperature.
Its sacred scalp is bleak, leaking myths about corruption,
And the phone cord fans the delicacy with laughter.
I traced the curve of his lips in the imposing orange cape of parking lots,
And I fell in love with their shape.
I heard her newborn squeal of frightened ground against the forgiveness of the night,
And I fell in love with her fate.
I followed them in the cement sparkle, alongside them, aside them,
Gliding across shadow grey oceans, black hair, inside them.
And I felt the corners of my mouth, lightning-pinching with sharp grins,
As though her pain that began to shred my diversion was ratified.
It was a singeing business, in which my guilt felt defeated by guiltless,
And I crossed that ghost river with them again by taxi ride.
A harmony floated above them like a baby's protection of a mother's hair from the sun.
I jumped to reach it, hold onto it like a third grader on a giant clothes hanger,
But no matter how far I swept my claws I was eventually food for my cave.
I was baby to its entrapment, narrowed by its hollow teeth,
A catastrophic prisoner of its tickled loneliness.
Just like nightmare, their ballet was of the most feminine fuschia,
And it balanced like a plank of wood in sunshine.
I was its neighbor, like an apparition allowed the protection only of minutes,
A ghost that followed a history for its preserved beauty.
And under their cartography, I felt a sweetness that I could never deserve,
For I can see now why he runs from me, as though my hand will fester.
An uphill drive is ten times the muscle of a downhill slide,
Especially when its army of descent move in synchronous footsteps.
I curdled my possibility of exhausted hope, listening to the cough of expired intention.
I was tackled by the article of disappointment, and I raced
Just to hear the death cackle of a rigidity I knit a fondness to.
I cradled my existence there, placing my leg in the bathtub one inch too augmented,
And I knew I could not suck in the breath of another in sleep without wistfully wishing his palm my own:
It would be as a hole in the ground for the most bashful moth to inhabit,
A single gravestone for my small solitude to trade with emotional shelter.
I cannot believe the riddles of this pencil sharpener weakness;
It buries my orbiting sympathies in a stomach of the unwilling.
And I fell in love with them, a lover of them, but not their lover in name,
And I canvased their expressions with the perfect gauze.
I fell in them, in love with them, separating my glossy, lifeless closet
From the polluted mirror and into harvested lightness.
They were the stuff of big theatre poetry, bloated with all the waltzing starlight
Of hymns, carnations, and childbirth.
But I at least saw them, or what was left of them.
She spoke of the filmstrip tease, how it sloshed your memory with
The flossing pulse of sleeping and waking.
I know I've felt the curve before;
It folds you like the inconsistency of the graveled road.
I sell my idleness to tiny jerks of discomfort or surprise, knowing that
Those which could lift an object were now hiccuping function.
I saw you with a smoke trail, filling up your eyes with samples:
Romance, curtains, and the operatic elegance of remarkable history.
I at least saw them, those two, alongside them, beside them,
Breaking up their equestrian duality with ardor.
I cabled with the cold irritation of winter waxing, waning of sharp Fahrenheits,
But truly did not celebrate anything but swaying, as a wind vane croaks and diagonally giggles under the conduction of giving-up-yourself.
And I sit singing your castle, not even firmly
Sure of its title.
Meanwhile, the shiver of warriors finds its angle upon my shoulders,
And I put all my woes in a tin can for just tonight.
There's a bonfire in the core of my stomach,
A lamppost chortling lullabies by the porch of my hairline.
I am the teleprompter for aggression to whimper to and ammunition to listen for.
I am the lily pad for the songbirds, and I cannot stay afloat.
I listen for you but cannot guess at the dementia that leads your presence by only a mirage's government.
This polish you left in so short a sweep will be hard to remove, yet I
cannot authorize more than one erosion.
I worship all of its tapestries at a banquet for my error's teeth.
I'm floating in and out, seating warmed by the cozy insurance of an oblivion puff.
The world moves as a rocking chair underwater.
Time cuts through like stabs, pauses of of deficient DVD player.
My story quakes and pouts.
My perception flows as a cloth in timid wind would flow,
Jutting its curved body from billow to billow with all the smooth grace
Of a serpentine swan.
When she cried, the vague silk burst through,
And I began to float like a camera in stabilizer alongside them.
He held her, then I placed my hand
Out vacantly to comfort her.
Then his leg came to tumble thunderously against the neck of my hand
And I felt the bone pinch my affection between them.
And it was as it ever was, with the two in their cotton revolution,
Loving and funneling the love through.
I fell in love with them both, alongside them, aside them both,
With their handkerchiefs of tender reflection.
It's standing in the tide when weather called for a tumultuous flood,
Leaning on the air that surrounds the two.
Those deer, those beating hearts of meadow neatness,
Sculpting their rolling flowers, their roses, constancy,
And romance samples wind like a tongue does the other:
Flickering with that heated whip of the cursed candle flame,
Ever made to sway and bend and dance for the master.
But I heard their whispers, grimaced with the very audience of it,
Having so little but envy to tempt the temperature.
Its sacred scalp is bleak, leaking myths about corruption,
And the phone cord fans the delicacy with laughter.
I traced the curve of his lips in the imposing orange cape of parking lots,
And I fell in love with their shape.
I heard her newborn squeal of frightened ground against the forgiveness of the night,
And I fell in love with her fate.
I followed them in the cement sparkle, alongside them, aside them,
Gliding across shadow grey oceans, black hair, inside them.
And I felt the corners of my mouth, lightning-pinching with sharp grins,
As though her pain that began to shred my diversion was ratified.
It was a singeing business, in which my guilt felt defeated by guiltless,
And I crossed that ghost river with them again by taxi ride.
A harmony floated above them like a baby's protection of a mother's hair from the sun.
I jumped to reach it, hold onto it like a third grader on a giant clothes hanger,
But no matter how far I swept my claws I was eventually food for my cave.
I was baby to its entrapment, narrowed by its hollow teeth,
A catastrophic prisoner of its tickled loneliness.
Just like nightmare, their ballet was of the most feminine fuschia,
And it balanced like a plank of wood in sunshine.
I was its neighbor, like an apparition allowed the protection only of minutes,
A ghost that followed a history for its preserved beauty.
And under their cartography, I felt a sweetness that I could never deserve,
For I can see now why he runs from me, as though my hand will fester.
An uphill drive is ten times the muscle of a downhill slide,
Especially when its army of descent move in synchronous footsteps.
I curdled my possibility of exhausted hope, listening to the cough of expired intention.
I was tackled by the article of disappointment, and I raced
Just to hear the death cackle of a rigidity I knit a fondness to.
I cradled my existence there, placing my leg in the bathtub one inch too augmented,
And I knew I could not suck in the breath of another in sleep without wistfully wishing his palm my own:
It would be as a hole in the ground for the most bashful moth to inhabit,
A single gravestone for my small solitude to trade with emotional shelter.
I cannot believe the riddles of this pencil sharpener weakness;
It buries my orbiting sympathies in a stomach of the unwilling.
And I fell in love with them, a lover of them, but not their lover in name,
And I canvased their expressions with the perfect gauze.
I fell in them, in love with them, separating my glossy, lifeless closet
From the polluted mirror and into harvested lightness.
They were the stuff of big theatre poetry, bloated with all the waltzing starlight
Of hymns, carnations, and childbirth.
But I at least saw them, or what was left of them.
She spoke of the filmstrip tease, how it sloshed your memory with
The flossing pulse of sleeping and waking.
I know I've felt the curve before;
It folds you like the inconsistency of the graveled road.
I sell my idleness to tiny jerks of discomfort or surprise, knowing that
Those which could lift an object were now hiccuping function.
I saw you with a smoke trail, filling up your eyes with samples:
Romance, curtains, and the operatic elegance of remarkable history.
I at least saw them, those two, alongside them, beside them,
Breaking up their equestrian duality with ardor.
I cabled with the cold irritation of winter waxing, waning of sharp Fahrenheits,
But truly did not celebrate anything but swaying, as a wind vane croaks and diagonally giggles under the conduction of giving-up-yourself.
And I sit singing your castle, not even firmly
Sure of its title.
Meanwhile, the shiver of warriors finds its angle upon my shoulders,
And I put all my woes in a tin can for just tonight.
There's a bonfire in the core of my stomach,
A lamppost chortling lullabies by the porch of my hairline.
I am the teleprompter for aggression to whimper to and ammunition to listen for.
I am the lily pad for the songbirds, and I cannot stay afloat.
I listen for you but cannot guess at the dementia that leads your presence by only a mirage's government.
This polish you left in so short a sweep will be hard to remove, yet I
cannot authorize more than one erosion.
I worship all of its tapestries at a banquet for my error's teeth.