white heat

hot terrain cotton blouse hair tiered and tied decorative linen skirt light through landscape an emphasis on seeing precisely as planned the music makes it worse i am sick of the brightness of lies and how a physical force forces me to be dissonant with water and wind and all else sweet which promises quenching thirst in the evening at my desk i invent myths to dispel the grief i have felt away from your thick lips hot breath god pursuing my death and then there are books to put the pretense in such a short time of visions acceptance before a sense of instability shifts our affection and writing rises like the need it is appearing to me to be as a shape-shift metamorphosis carrying a glass of brandy into the two worlds you inhabit but that was then

fulfillment of bloom or renewal if future of flower buds barren

green opening of love but leaves growing over the opening yes green set inside the unborn children between us that french girl you had sex with i’d imagine the kiss was most difficult but sad dust for me to cut the spray of white i am a woman who sees flashing red of my exes briskly like dogs being walked slowly in morning i opened my distance into sky “bye-bye” said i a solid mass of broken without the viridian of foliage without the soil where the colors come from in buds streaked as the petal on a rose i know yet lose and splash still the center never opens completely white green mild still

years on the pillar never adhered to the friendship vow

made out with guy who came to see me silent was i so many years adhering to such meager requirements for friendship until amazed one day to hear dumbly in fact to feel surprise ex is the hex of never was in this affliction resolved not by anything so much as a warm mortification of flesh in friendship tested barely say sermons but if chosen poorly as i did twisted out of a dozen chances to inch my way into time blind trust and self-denial was such just a twig at intervals though her jabs continue wrapped in the abscess of feigning a nature unappetizing at this point of the near-material failed medicine all the rest of the days were of the parasite made a saint by others from among us