Highly-regarded and filthily-consumed at quite the churlish eruption, such that I refuse to believe I have arrived at any particular moment with any heuristic conceptualization of any body within me Perhaps I was and I wished and I danced as feelings finally took their toll at all ages and tenders butterflying each eukaryote, eucharist, effluence unto the madness Semblance or sagacious, it matters to and hails upon the hatchling that umbral prick oddly-over-night; tumescent solace and hostel mums em-em-em dashing as the eyes flutter backward unto therapeutic spite Ascendant 'if' asked and curdled as life briskly entertained without detail or attention thereto, harboured as doe in penultimate hunt of bread and circuses: Freedom never Penance always follows the irony of hubris revealing truth to the ignorant, thusly do I quaver in turnout as my love is shared Crumbled or piped into a dance beyond a eulogy, outstripped by comely glances at my disreputable moral equivalence after all these times you've risen from my abuses; Piracy runs through family lines as blackcurrant jam stains the elbows in any channelled love baffling below its weight in gold as we must drown Pianos at christenings in facile shadow-played neuroses projected as purported blessings naught understood as chords filigreed by trauma Illicit and dissolute around these pasts or these peonies or these eyefuls of dissociative trust; who can I be apart from what I may turn Habit or shrew within eaves pearled from soot thrown off the effigy called out to therapists over years misspent asking for enough to survive The feminine hunger I cheapened by looking to any father figure willing to hold my tears in escrow or appraisal of my compulsive praying for relief I need to hear myself I need to walk myself As fear is the need for myself To ardently perjure myself I listen to and love no one Cupping and freely wounding a caved sternum With idealized exchanges of grandly souring entropy As though a victor shall continue a war Vís-a-vís cleaning my heart as it rests In these works, less hands, splitting love For the humours of tea leaves and mortality I yield a never-deserved soul To oil and paint the minds I touch As though audience can mirror my wounds Likening the squall to a thorax, given as driven to the dirt As I've been whilst pursuing a malingering deity souring many A parent with accelerationist treatment of femininity as problematic; Regressive always wins in this negatively-reinforced disclosure Regarding the audacious fuel that is authenticity