I took the spasmed story up in my arms as with the litter’s runt.
Haunted evergreens which animate for the hunted eve in the hot thicket before hell reaches out-Heart hissing sacrifice, in the edifice of this immortal structure-
Political hedonism’s approach to holy mortification,
and the infant filibuster writhing filthy and innocent in viscera composed of a hereditary blame fetish; what shame abashes this motherless porno.
It spreads ear-to-ear inside, and burns up the engine’s ugly out.
The heart’s philandering specter speaks nothing like his former-
What freakish thoughts crawl inside, I know this myself.
I fastened south-stuck compasses to the bows and arrows of aimless angels.
I had compelling thoughts.
I had black open caverns and the seraph’s winged slumber which showed me grizzly heavens in many directions.
I took the street going northwards, and up its brilliant path-
(Cross-stab across the old books)
Old Confection Christ preached his way through a J-walk severed journey, stumbling up rocky descents with the marrowed-crutch of a conservative corpse to guide him any which-way, towards the closest thing which could listen.
The avalanche still came. It had star-quality. Modern signs, in their plain obviousness, may be the primal dreams of ancient harbingers.
LE NOUVEAU RÉALISME
The back-alley way adorns the violent underpinnings of monogamy through the masque, and amorous pretext (autonomy, abandon, and assorted nothings)
What you see, may say far too much about you! (what liabilities lounge in lazy revelations off-the-cuff)
Plaster white pleasantries of language damage the construction of an insulated wall.
Honey-struck lightning may bleed sweet across the sky,
Just as it also drips apathy-paste (dust) and goes on to congest the arteries of those magnificent phantom cracks through which you have the chance of seeing heaven.
In humble defense,
I took a crutch to sleep with, as I often limped upon dreaming.