Once upon a time, bravo! i worked for the devil, over dressing the part, thinking i’d put distance between him and me, this man that lived in shadows for a quarter of a century, speaking to no one about his mission, since, to put it out there, would invite suspicion, but, hey, nonny, not right in the head—it’s not your fault for being sick, the trick, i think, is to acknowledge it—even if, secretly, you might think, “I’ve done nothing wrong!”
But you make bad decisions from time to time, and, although the great test for a sculptor is to integrate your mistakes (as if no mistakes were made), it doesn’t change the fact that, somehow, people got hurt along the way—so you suffer a little when you figure out how to make it whole again—as if every moment was entirely intended
Can i help it if i don’t want to be reminded of the shame you’d reevaluate after making love? Suddenly nothing that came before (bad things, I mean) seems to matter that much—and, i guess, well, you reach out to mankind before you reach out to God—since He speaks a language we’re forced to learn—if, that is, we truly exist. Not all of us do.
you low down rotten weasel, you! you’ve been planning this subterfuge from the moment we met; fish hanging on—right on target; ignore the smell—since I’m headed, aren’t I, to a point—a place devoid of another man’s spunk? No ejaculation for you, you loon, not so long as you shut me out, thinking, for a moment (more like watching this happen than playing an active part) that I don’t need all this
these meds—dear friend, keep me at my best,
punishment, then, to the golf-overseer,
looking as if he’s kissing off all the rest
don’t know, for sure, but you live in fear
creating an idea of happiness and cheer
companionship for the old lady and her bunk
snorkeling in shallow water—i steer
myself toward indemnification (you skunk)
you get what you paid for (living in a shoe)
i honestly don’t know what You will think
when I overcome this ultra-dry screw
shifting, as they do, toward His next drink
thinking—you can get drunk in heaven—
why not, no consequence, but do you need
it? minus the anger and foolish men
saying things, in a mood, that kind of bleed
shot and killed because he turned his hand
pointing it towards a Nazi salute,
downtime, loving, Ophelia, not as planned
and, maybe, think on it—not so cute
questioning, speculating, on the demon
you outrun, screwing your chances
at justice—a fair trial—and degradation
but i’m on to imagine other romances
now that everybody sees my love—this
illness bleeding out the corners of my eyes
did you think you were something i’d miss,
as if, in the grand scheme of things, size
(as in amplitude, which amounts to energy)
brings us forth when we imbibe: “Jesus Christ!”
but the power we seek has been plenty
and, to be frank, these notes, bub, are diced
so small that you’d really have to do it grand
taking, for a moment, His holy cognition
and replace it with a love for His reprimand,
getting attention, since, what else, this position
would keep me thinking dear heart, of an acquisition, nice painting, i guess, that we choose (as a couple, no less, no more if we lose) playing out events by ears on fire, listening to his love translate my desire, a dry, dry desert with a little wave—must be, i think, how women behave