Not SURE IF I'm Allowed to do this but all dialect is seperated between the two characters by paragraph setting
Debating The Dark Spots
The van der between
Your quantized eyes are sweet
And I’m not sure if I should move closer
Or if it would matter
That the effects ofmy interference
Would then make me Bohr
But we could argue over marble cakes
And search for dark places inbetween
Mistakenly convincing you
How everything will be alright
For the Taste
Your integument is taming to my tongue.
Two kinds of wisdom if you follow,
These chapters of Kingdom come,
Earth, and Heaven,and all Kings sung.
He told me selfishness,
Would bid me silenceand due me done.
On boastful voyages,
Across salty riverbed runs.
Mistake me if I’m wrong,
But am I fruitless for the sake of the snake?
Or am I founded upon
The opaque that enraptured
The beauty of our taste?
My mesodermal
Has brought me raged
A blemished pseudo squall.
May I say these words?
Or does my blood coil ungodly entangles
To these branded watered brawls?
If you wanted to talk
On the laws of Durkheim
Or Marx and Weber
Sinoatrial signals that cardiac syntax
Moral and immoral phonemes whose dialect
Drop bricks onto arteries
Or the bronchia sound of each breath
That noises anomic like natural selection
To choose what air tobreath
What winds to share?
The Aristotelian teleological
That has become necessary to such nature
To the movements of your mouth
And the superstructure of my heart
The dynamics of thisbody
And to the infrastructure that created it
Cleaning Houses
The view from my windows
Are not the same
They are not filled with the constellations
Once embodied upon them
I want to break them down
A shattered mosaic
Just to Catch the Cow Jump over the moon
But I’d be too afraid of her bowing ties
That would beat us both to the green
Only then would I be able to gaze across
The astronomical sailings
Of a starry filled sky
Like a homeless man in the dumps
Preaching blues to newlyweded wives
Like it hasn’t already been done
It’s disgusting,
The view from my window
Doped down on Ambien’s
Falling asleep to Now I Lay Me’s
Filling in the excuses as to why they didn’t work
If only I could crank the cracking’s between
My faded drapes and curtains
But I’m too glued to the folding chairs
To morph into the models of that broken window dream
The Pride Of Men
Field works dimly camouflage attrition
These pomegranate hands who cultivate
Trenches of dusk squeal to those lesser seen
In Labyrinths of detachment
We feed upon this which but only grows
These pomegranate hands who cultivate
Our strength is swoon but stars do also rise
From our hands we pass on to daybreaks next
We feed upon this which but only grows
Our march is marsh, to scavenge the land
And when demised the green for moments
From our hands we pass on to daybreaks next
And in that moment of such starry watch
Thus bares the seeds to that of all we strive
Though strength still meek through stripe of strife
We stature ourselves upon what we heap
Lost In Translation
If my swallowed breath to whistled fall airs
No longer does justice to tricks pigeons play
Noted by passerby’s of such humble greys
Then the tectonics of these oceans of mine
Have drowned any clear path between you and I
And If I could catch the words again and again
By the opening of blinds between tongues
I would feel as though the seas would much dryer now
But even pigeons have mastered such silence
And I’m not sure howmuch more to swallow
To get to you to see what I need you to see
Or how far for me to go to get you there
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