Tell Me (misinformation)

What’s the point
in living
or giving
myself
like praise
or a prize
to anoint and save
the death in my eyes(?)

I am Hate
I rejoice
for the Thanksgivings
of Summer
and the tortuous ways
of Sun against snow:
another life I do not know
without blunder

I am thunder
on the weekend
seeking a second
like a month were Thursday –
as minute as a sewn fray

Nothing is gay or straight
or straight
or aligned
Nothing remains
crooked as Orlando goes
or unpredictable as Time blows
like Time were wind of
war on the shore
of a beach born
not to grow

A heat of
forsaken thee
A killing of whoever
as disease
screaming “Whatever!”
at the sky on our knees

I have no needs
I have only dreams
I am a dream
and stitches are seams
And breaths are pleas
saying “please”
with their breaths
like Forever

Tomorrow is our tether
like Yesterday’s weather –
but pleasured
and come
by belief
and the craze of Whatever

Whats the use in living
not together
when all time
is a measure
of a dollar against a dime
and a cry against the Whys?

Tell me, tell me,
how to lie

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