Wordsworth meant what he said—“Suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark and has the nature of infinity.”
In between the dichotomy of Hubristic prisms, they are Tumbling like manuscripts encasing A chain of flowers and awful slandering For his bewitched marionette.
Clenching hold of my ankles Now painting in purple and blue Bruises with broom-closet thanks. The writhing cuts sound apologetic And his clumsy juggernaut for them
Balls in my fingers Again, forward on bilious asphalt Circumventing a VIP backstage pass, Plummeting yesterday’s cancellation Of memories in morning dew.
And dripping vancomycin, tear dukes Fencing the favorite eye, elliptical bathing. The suitor illuminates fixture and flogging, Eloquence in chemical cigarettes, Androids and uncircumcised cinnamon sticks.
And these future relations talked in tales Are not reliant on a rallying resilience. Tattered tattoo creeping into capillaries; A wounded phallic flower foraging On the bathroom floor sensible and nobility.
In search of equivalent pleasantries, Their state of carnage and menagerie. Placement in pants hang flaccid, It is damned and constitutionally written On parchment and in humor.