Every time I leave the house I forget I’m a felon of fantasy.
Convicted. Shot three dead…click of red… poppy polkadots a-goin’
bang bang bang
All tragedy reveals an intention-
I remember screaming at the top of my lungs to cushion the sirens
miles vanishing behind me as I fled to escape the edict and the verdict of every heart I ever put a bullet into/ that no brilliant surgeon living or dead could dare extract.
I am still at my task, threadbare but dauntless, and I need to know whats inside of you, the barking mutating mechanisms of our center. All the skin craved cruelties.
Cuz close is unbearable. Close is where are lonely even when we are together. Similar costumes with easily recognized colours. Close is a click-bait computer virus. :::WARNING::: Re-installed drivers new and improved software.<em><strong> :(/error) Close means being guilt-dragged across parking lot, sea, and desert to be crucified to a hospital bed where I’ll no doubt be surrounded by all the speckless white coats. The Mevlevilik whirling of all my dreams. The bride to my imagined wedding.
What an art there is to being so ill.
Ahhh, Close is knowing I need to get me some knee pads for crawling ’round at your feet. Some gloves for hands ill prepared for the struggle and the strangle of you.
All tragedy reveals an intention.