Memoir Perfume

I left my brains with you—so sincere in you—an appearance seemed by innuendo, inner microphones, trapeze binoculars. I’m incorrect about you, so off the edge, harmonizing my beliefs. You’re unmitigated, seeming incognito, a genius, in compact horizon, many haven’t the excellence—to see the precision. It was abysmal: loving you, not chasing you, so much threaded to invisibility: freewheeling infatuation, hostile inside, wheels of color, so prudent this time. It seems to be a clown in me, a discreet friend, so poetic, chasing tires, rolling downhill; unilateral addiction, once smitten, fighting to find life in make-believe. I left my soul on the porch—close by sits a chunk of mineral, the words tend to miss the agenda. The undergoing is of vital importance; it seems to open some part inside; I’ve become austere, it supports the nature of the poet in the miracle. Life looking like it must languish, the novel seeming impersonal, the craft is impeccable. Listen to sound. Dance to music. Become an innocent infant—such retrogression, soar again, fly into screams, rage over earth. So much a small thing, so indecent a metaphor, the past sits at the hallway, in the office, through your eyes.