a poem for today, 14 August 2012
[a syllable sorted sonnet of seven sentences and its image]
The connection between sex and love doesn't last as long as the need for each.
You cannot progress spiritually and have orgasms, not in a true way.
The fact that this one minor stupid thing can get me this upset is absurd.
Inside the outside there's a sliver of eclipse which explains all but nothing.
When I ceased watching Paris had appeared in the form of a jello mold.
One of the aspects of this is "end behavior" and it's pretty easy.
It's about the bigger plans and has nothing to do with my feelings.