To hell, then, with my troubles and woe, neither of which would exist if and when life is taken as a whole. The woman i see is a reflection of me, and my relationship with the divine. If i represent this woman, the divine, then, would represent me, at one with the universe. And yet I engage the role that i play, sampling His experience, the better, I say, to be useful, and, naturally, to entertain.

Choose wisely, my petite, for i might call
upon you at any time—thinking, only,
of two points on a line, that, for all
intents and purposes, cross at infinity,

But feeling, now, albeit, temporarily,
a little down, blue as what produced no heir,
and imagines, to His chagrin, that a
family is what brings us closer to Him,

when He, in fact, chose a different path.
So I wonder, then, as God’s son, he must
be the happiest of all those in heaven:
these blues would contradict what He sussed:

I connect with my sweetheart—she represents the divine; this goes way beyond mortal desire: in fact, i suspect, it, for now, is entirely something else. When i think of her . . . oh, sweet nothings, do tell . . . but, i think, she represents Jesus, and, as such, I’m really talking to Him. It’s possible, I suppose, that she exists; that she lives in heaven, if not here, and I’m talking, at some point, to her. But to speak to her, I need to be aligned with Him, and so, I say, she, for me, is His extension. So I feel, don’t I, acute yearning for something beyond this life, and I find it, don’t I, by sending out His waves—the source, inside me, that leaves me looking for more, something more than a taste—I believe it’s His call.

living here, and thinking this much: no aches and pains in the next life—but does this yearning for God never abate? hurt people hurt people, go down Moses, oh, the things I suffer for a pair of blue eyes—lonely as shit in this capital of difference—a far cry, i think, from my heavenly home . . .
what sickness is this that gets my goat—making me angry at what doesn’t float my boat? Well it’s my problem, not theirs, that much I know, and yet, in the next life, i don’t imagine a world as isolated as this.
well, don’t hear my words and think, well, he needs to get out more, because, as it happens, i’ve been out there in more places than one—there’s nothing, in this life, to make things right—this place, as such, is as good as any . . .

So what, then, is my condition? this idea—the feeling that i’ll die from what I’m missing—must surely go, at once, into remission—I will it to be that way. i never loved a woman that loved me; i only loved in fact, that which was bad for me . . . because, i think, of my mission: something that I seemingly committed to before I came to this earth.
now, the gravity of that decision—this idea that i’ll collapse into a black hole—is real; i feel it when I consider: my one true love, also, feels the gap between us—doing her best, through no small power of her own, to feed upon both time and space—as if that reality might replace the void, in our heart, that, without our knowledge, would connect us both.

knee deep in the life that i prescribe—
I wake up, a little, from a shitty week,
chasing the dragon and his diatribe.
tell me why, my darling, our life would peak:

I don’t know about you, but I’ll be fine,
thinking on all that I’ve done with my time,
walking, for the world, a thin blue line.
Finding someone to love can’t be a crime:

Here we are, then, standing steadfast with His reaction, redirecting His energy, instead, it might seem, of dumping it, and taking in, then, an adulterated stream. Well, i feel a little desire—it comes with the frustrations of understanding mathematics; but, to be sure, i don’t know what my true love looks like, and, therefore, I can’t exactly unload
All i know, at this time, is that, in this life, we are separated—indeed, we live, for now, separate lives . . . don’t i torture myself to think that she might love somebody else? That wouldn’t necessarily be the case—i’m too hard on her, especially, considering, this life is a disgrace—hardly the civilization that I would associate myself with.

Back to my depression, ginger in a sling
trying to be ok with the limited
knowledge that I am recovering,
not feeling so great, wishing he was dead,

sucking up to China, flexing in bed.
downside of a modicum of mania,
think i’ll go back to the life i dread—
life in godforsaken America,

Now you’re back again, swearing that you’ll be my friend after you do to me what you do to him; well, this is just me, can’t get off unless I fucking betray somebody  method acting for the road, don’t know when I’ll be getting home—well, thinking, shithead, that this is a dream and the person I am is on the way . . . would you like to be somebody else, just for a day?
No, on the contrary, I’m somebody else every day of the week—the person I am lives in heaven; he’s not forced, do tell, into method acting, becoming the voice of God knows how many. Well, do your thing, abomination to woman kind, look what happens after you do time  complicated fantasy . . . striking at the quick—i know normal people don’t experience this

saddle up, young blood, we’re going for
a ride—the troll king lives at the ocean,
fighting each other with our broad sword,
loving a princess that remains a virgin

troll king, no doubt, wants to make me afraid
hold on to power and you will be saved,
do you think of anything but getting laid?
i suffer, so i write, eases the agony,