PRIMARY LOVE
These words have all different meanings in the circus of life. Well done wine proffers a delight to your eyes. In sky tones. Delivered meaning. Crying out to blue, in sway, a seed of truth. Plants grow on the opposite ends of our size. Needing breath. Terastalized deception over now. It’s all-damn-right. We can’t quantify the Gretchens’ corporal minds. 3 or 4 or 5 of us in dropped daylight. Surface beams a many manic weathered days. Over us in secret how a balloon flies. But depth-left of center, just ending on an ocean of glazed rolling eyes, again, oh… did the carnation buffer in the windspritz onward where its petals loomed for a lot on light. There was the beginning of a want to be all right again. That same twinge in heatric, with the fervor of a sinner’s heart. We may yet equine—I’m sorry: opine. We may yet opine that there are bricks as soft. So tell us. Few of you you have might to tell us of. In Hondad rivulets let gloom in to night-light. The same shame a nevered fjord would’ve ankle-blasted to step a few. That was the recourse of a humbled dash on spittle’s maw. For famed old divorces of a humbled ash on jetter’s few. I know it not all the time, son, way-long. Some of us living in the light can’t afford to. ¶ How to more fully conceptualize entropy the leatle-winks of aspry droll. And all our heads have rolled—but not, son! You have known just as I have known what it takes to become a person in this day and heat, one. You have surfaced on the face of the sun in dreams overwhelmed in vats lost of starburning retrogrades. You have made this palace a home, a home. And for once would you, oh honest simple thing, re-relate the incidents to the ones about the wall? They have not yet heard of us, or our suns lights, or our stars’ worlds going hypertrophied in the vast desolate grayscale of space. A metric ton for a fact still left over. Implausible darkness at the edge of them all. You who would wait for me on the other side of a fall, I am grateful that—yes, I am grateful that you would wait for me. I do not know what else to say now to y’all. ¶ In principle flashly, despite what our cants have in sight, I know—I know—I know, I am not prepared at all. There is something like a lie being told at the center of the self you can’t get over but will, I will you, now. To. In Decembering fervor while it is January still yet you do not know. I cannot pick you all up like that. Not just like that, no. My wallet is lost somewhere and the bed makes us red, va. I had a dream I was searching for the love in serialized beds, with inflatable dancing alien sheens being breathed through, protracting. I made friends in disappearing projects against the plight of bulldozing machines and ampterfuge. I found lost paint pallets with secret compartments whose messages left had a gang of thieves wanting my number. I’d had to recall all parts of me I believed in the bluntly sexualized rhodo-bombs’ cartaways. It was another empty scene in a dank tent tarping over everything. I understand just as well as you, sometimes, mirror image you, loved. Though not always as completely and always as the foresight to your expressing understanding. Never with the same gestalt or shrike. ¶ There are ampules of God’s plasma being delivered to covert botanists working on the shame girch whose lurching in at the sight of gold specks on the rhotorific leaflings is spire-eyed and tall. Not a hundred percent on anything, seemingly. Primary love is shared. Unchle-thwait lemmering seafring. The bastard head preparest. In its own sea beloved hash-bowled. But primary—yes—primary love is shared. There were ways we hadn’t come to delight yet, and soon so… over the ways there were heights yet unsoothed so. ¶ Combing separate orchids for fate runes. Apart from these, too, handled briefs. A lark a tall-tale sees. Perhaps is more than lay our alligator-eyes called. But rung up in fine tune the delight I got to hear your voice this once. Before it was everywhere, everyone was speaking through. Soon enough it may’ve become a question. The toke race might’ve been oblong from the looks of it, but we weren’t going to pretend yet it was oglevie’d oft. Per tracks in the frequent seams they might have already caught on but to tell the truth we were fun to read. Then and now in loud packets. There could’ve been another long false start apart from us there. It was the brain on its own ticket doing the dime shimmy down where the skinny departs. Not that we could underdo the frequent packs. This or that one, what did it matter? I had gotten the typewriter, but the damned thing didn’t work too well. I’d had to constantly readjust the ribbon feed so as to allow it to be stricken hammerwise without the thing flying out and gunking the reem. You could maybe understand my delusion. It wasn’t seen. I could’ve at one point believed in us as apart from the vagrant tanks. It goes on and begins to come back all a sudden. This sickly sense you could not recall fully the sequenced pops of the off-kilter brief flee. You could not tell at all you were going to become this thing. Yet here you are. And here we all are, found wanting. Wanting us, wanting you. Apart from ourselves our own hearts reeking. Separatist flights from what has come down. Altogether the doff start. Not to part, but to part all the same. Waiting in vain. Apart from what you’d want to. There are escalators waiting in the day. No explanation why. Just the same old thing, that voice, getting tired.