Life, in a Sense.

Weeping feels too relieving and the sun is out
where every moment may unweave a memory
leaving me racing my own inevitable realization
when this chamaecrista dehisces a barking pounce
violating what peace was mine, churning torment.

To whom with which to confide only incorporeal
as unfair to share reality of Phobos lest it I instill.

Resortion?? To keeping it all my own, roaming?
Around that which I wish someone would hear?
For the sake of sake of the sake of perspective?
You don't want my real talk and neither do I.

So I prance out my fusions of words, masking,
enabling minds' wander where this one is granite,
parched as a winter lip bitten, thoroughly gnawed,
eyes nature has glazed, wanting not to have seen
any of the tidal thrushes from anchorless juggernauts
afloat in an estuary bordering a brine of bitterness,
a sea I have gulped from and thus tasted my blood,
choking on my body's denial of the salted waters,
a vivid flavor rancid and familiar filling my whole face.
They said it was the only liquid in ninety miles square,
the liquor for themselves and crisp aqua for the hounds,
their piss for the plants and fruits' nectar the captain's.

Filthy chambers where seeded children are cash crops.

Delinquent maniacs rotating turns to scorch their flesh,
addicted to the fumes of death and decay produced.

Abandoned cradles overtaken by masses of worms.

Heartless cupids harpooning drunk and blindfolded,
actual affection most often unrecognized until ruined.

But all arrives eventually. Sometimes. In a sense.

Exactoid

Moments herded of their own count asX
Whispishly cybirds oscillate in plumdusK
Wings thresh echos from voice of metaL
Xiphias ontology against which contrasT
Nexs frm wthn to whch whn lstnd wastE
Vzhnz of dszhnz deep prszhn predavorE