Anger Day # 1 by Douglas Thompson
Its bitter perfume rises
towards your feet
we have this Paris
once and relived in everyone.
I know things
of what was and was not
I know wretchedness
or a shadow, a less than blue.
What did you hanging,
dilated pupils, understand?
Metamorphosis, my goals
my hopes in my gut not enough so lets
for the failed lives the giants
leaving our own bohemia
eat of itself a reflection
to encompass the easily forgotten.
Without his God the ultimate withering sun
the same today we will go beneath my feet expansive
this waking symphony opposite of anything
my body cries out the perfect voyeuristic living
and is the most beautiful ornamental wash.
A crushing white orange bones the perfect opium
a little more fluent to give up my scars
the brightest aureole surely the dead must
cobbled lanes weave heaven in mock crumbling
with one hand violently these lamented sculptures of brass
black-eyed centaur handwritten graffiti proclaiming
remaining stump philosophy forced unrequited love
for the heavenly light the strength of it fascinates
taboo of the unearthed bones and the wrinkled skin
a hundredfold for the rest the skin of cruel life
and painful mind like divine passion.
A dog, dirty her reputation
can see through her storms that light up
the sweet cherry nectarine piss
in aroma of the forgotten
gothic churches some shining
to reflect an eye for luxury humid
I have begun the journal close to my heart
more intricate for small parts of the being
snapping at each identity.