at virtue’s zone (from the castled face of a suicidal negro)
Bishop.
Bishop pulls a stale cigarette bud and scratches a light on murky wall. The poet recalling disgraces crouched in his towers… how she paged through option of escape. This was it, her reprieve. A sickly lover pinioned by fear of his skin. His rage forwarded to years in their return…that mission of hers. He calms towards joy…an un-dulled kind of happiness.
Catwalks brimming with marching of man-hooves sandwiched by browns of stone and car-cells.
His face pacing the lick of sheets embroidered with aborted jewels, cold beauty of the poor in folly of attempts at riches. He deflects his will to the base of his fears…this indelicate brace of a harsh life. Affirmation of all his composed inadequacies comes as in these words, haunted and bustling with a need to outline his imagined and frivolous reality.
He insisted, often times on subverting his vagueness with regards to life’s experiments; but as with all polished neurosis and sex-hunger, only a face obsessed with admirations showed in his words.
Yes, he admired the ones who coiled his breath with copper…suffocation of passion, how it bred lusts for mineral pillage. His.
He could explain his reticence towards all emotion, because he hadn’t felt the mature trickle of true morbidity. He knew no sorrow, yet. He thought in anticipation of worst to befall. This was the moaning dissipated off an ambiguous rabid soul. Bishop noticed this through his insolent silence. The volumes jarred in his rasped, coil-canopied skull. Thence, Bishop tore the cigarette from his lip and suddenly frightened this pond of still-water with flurried lessons in misogyny.
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