Once More, With Gusto (4/13/2020). -M.Weisgerber

No, I hate this place, the stinking beauty, the light, the simple way
it reminds me of norther France and that it took me away from you.  No,
I loathe the way I feel, every single day, despise the very veins pumping
along the oxygen that makes my breath recall the taste, the simple melody
of your stunning frame moving forward, upward, prepping for the ready, the grasping
my hair and pulling me close, putting me in my place, nearing for the taking
of the turning of me, of we, of us round and round.  A forever dance, no.

The way that plane took me away from you, standing there where the tears cascading
endlessly outwards, and no matter what my foolish hands could carry, or shift to try to build or to
attempt to lift them up, one by one or to glue or reassemble, its liquid courage I
needed to keep the hands from shaking then, to slowly stumble onwards.  No church there.
The whole flight listening to the mewling, the clawing of my neck for any intake and
 uttering over and over that I could have stayed, should have dragged myself to sanctuary.

I hate the way I remember now, this new clouding of the brain, I would have, still can change I
want to pull apart the fibers, desire to escape from that basement storage, the
tortures all around, then quietly feeling (now utterly knowing) I'd never be good enough, no
you insisting, pushing, forever proving me right, showing your a walker, always
forever and ever moving on - the one promise your stunningly deft on keeping.

So why try?  Why turn, why insist or do anything but burn?  The change, it always comes, no?
Fuck the law, fuck the lord, fuck the very falling of the sky; lift fists to the hand that nears you.
It shrieks, it leaves worse than ribs yanked one by one out through neck, it reeks, no
of blood spewing up to nimbus, out all over the sidewalk, people hollering.
a silence which eventually gathers round.  It startles, it scatters.  Disseminates the worst of me.

Of those divorces never hoping, no lack desire to be alone, with anyone (open there with me).  The
steady wanting turning expectation, expanding along to shock, dying quickly - how does one find
normal in this mood?  How are you at peace as the shards keeps spinning round, dividing, cutting: it
must be easy to watch from afar, the laughing additionally spewing filaments.  (no)  (don't believe it)

Then fuck them, fuck the very keeping of the dead!  For we join them, always,
their pointless whispers only threaten to unwind us, undermine
the converse order we didn't even try that hard to sell.  Alllll the pointless sucking.

I hate the lack of calls, the rebuilding of the nearing fates, no eyes, no attempts at trying, fights, wins
to cast or care or make a lasting dent of lasting....so yank them, pull them upward.  Out?

All is black then, all is hate - all is madness going on, forever sideways. 
Die, simple brains, perish.  Oh cast aside useless lungs; leave behind these things that matter not.

They are done now. Oh please god, let them be done. Something. Anything. The charring. Ending. I..