I quiver when the world speaks to me.
The leaves lisp and the wind pushes,
Howls no matter the winds strength or occasion.
I don’t think wind likes me.
Thoughts and feelings diffuse through my brain
Like cultural diffusion in north America.
It’s unexpected, volatile and random.
It is orange, the color of insanity.
It is chaos, not tread from my rubbery fingertips and I fear it.
I don’t understand a mess I haven’t caused.
The days are omens
And strings of bad luck are little fingers of the terrible omens,
Here to puncture my skin and feel my arteries pumping.
Pump latterly, somberly,
Placidly in a maelstrom of rushes and calms and colors and torrents. When he looks at me that way
It corpulates into an environment within my head.
The flowers wilt and the vines that climb
On the inside of my occipital capsule curl back
Like his eyes were vinegar
And his breath an obscurant fog that burns the blue from the sky
And the green from the damp leaves.
His grip is annihilating and an anomie to my person,
My mind’s paradise squeezed to sooty remains.
He is the most veritable boy,
With his kind smile and heart of billet-doux.
I hate his oleaginous honesty.
He wants the baseness of nature
To meld with the acid of human society
To even out us both.
I hope his dreams fall.
I prefer and depend on the extremes my evil murderous neighbors
Limn next to blue sky and the blue ocean
And the blue eyes of this incarnadine boy.
I hate how he cudgels the evilness out of me with his calmness
And the punctilio he strains on my lies.
I wish he would let me be dastardly,
Leave my mind to create machinations of every kind,
Eclipse in his own unbearable amazingness
So I can be as dirty as I desire.