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.
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