GLOBUS CRUCIGER
I compromised for a shadow’s fool the play that went on in my head that time. It was full of bum actors, and a crevice on the stage where little imps would leak out and fly through our bodies like no-snow. And I was the person watching the thing, by myself in a whole row toward the back where it was hard to hear. I was coming up with the thing I couldn’t say, in my heart’s engine, revved down. I was coming up with the thing I couldn’t say.
The opus began with a little lost work. I struck a match and held it in my burning fingers. Exo does libble ent warm. It consumed my soul afresh. It was not like the whole ambient reckless neck-breaking sesh. I’d spent too long on the manuscript to really know what it is, now. I could not pretend I was single a spent. The spells casted at me from Godknowswhere were Oxford-like. Southern rural America, maybe, but with a twinge of this British lip I could not deny, to tell the truth. Typical stoop getting suckered into trying again, though I was—and I knew—very plain for the meal rill. It was undeniable.
Globus cruciger in the upturned hand of a mighty king. Said you’d wanted to be unbroken, but were not alone. And came to on your stomach mid-crawl through the lit trenches of an endless night, trying to not to show yourself to the enemy overseeing the brazen sky, while you got maybe one little sliver. If you looked up. You could see it there, glowing orange and pink.
Twisted inside, there was a setback to the whole routine. It did not go quite how you wanted it to. I was pulling back honestly like I was envying the ocean. And it didn’t occur, but somewhere, out there, the notaulus played. And I knew it had to be something, because something was going on in my hands. They had to be clasped together over my head, while I attempted to sleep on my side. Too far away to really hear the play.
I came up with a new song I though you’d like. I played it back home in the garage we stayed in while the bombs erupted outside, and you listened but did not respond. Qualitative I only know the chords’ shapes; I maybe play by ear, some, but I do not really know.
In the exo dus from ooh rah lay ber gibben torpid to know. The mathematics composing the brit spin were strange, too; the heavens were crying; it was a mad kind of day.
If honestly I could change, would I know? I wanted to say that to understand the will of your higher power is strange. Spirituality in the venom range going unknown to its users, espers of honesty. I levitated the cells in my throat so my voice was strained when I screamed out for God underneath that speeding train. And this part was not a fiction; it was true.
Ending on the line blare a walk when what images were provided explained. Who on the shoreline was watching the waves break over and over and over again. Could be told be the blankly lit angel he was not to stray, whether or not he wanted to. Who was given a necklace that beheld the likeness of Saint Michael, who wore it protectively under his shirts, for protection from some unknown evil out there which might eventually end him. Who would be able to tell, though?
Crying Venus ambered in the show. Would even a stroke of good luck say? Where were your moribund luke triumphs, going sour on the structured fluke? I compared you to when your—you were honest on many accounts. I compared you to when your wings collapsed and came in over us, when I thought you were an angel lifting me up. Crumbs of the glare on a course for death. I watched too and had acid flashbacks with tracers and all at times. I could not come through the veil without looking left and then looking right. When I did, the rain behind it blinded me. All I could see was rebounding water droplets crashing into one another on the wet cement deluge compassionate ghoul-heal.
Were we optioned for the next scene, I wonder what it would’ve been. There perhaps our ways were decided. It could be said one way or the other, though. Sometime in the aftermath owned in fumbles there was a blight for us. It was twayed frumpled loo. I could try and describe it, but I don’t really want to.
I am perturbing coming back on the cracked line, betraying myself even as I attempt to stand, falling back down hard and hitting ground. Crawling in the trenches. Over which bombshells and bullets fly. I unknown. To the cause to the effort to the war of hopes. I was barely even able, but I made it here. And where we are now, I do not think you would want to go. Enslaved by a common traction to the wall. Pretending all our lives the shadows in the cave are people and events taking place in life. Performing for ourselves our own minute narratives to explain who we are, which we then believed to our cores, and took on the appearances of. Would you not shell—
Depth fiending for a clean. Shunt through across cometous starseeds going numb in their souls’ bodies, on whatever drug in whatever place, to pretend they were people living a life—again, to pretend. I don’t understand why I don’t understand. Sometimes, blue is like yellow or green. Other times, who would be if I’d known? Whether or not the seam preframed a glint of hair on my head and stormed. The runny blood of my nose forming an inverse mask over my mouth as seen in the mirror I lowered my face to the faucet’s flow to clean. The number to my name undergone somewhere bull and trifled. I want oh but say you mean. Something to do with. Something real.