In For It

Bound shapes of inarticulate mass, burnt in the aged
reckless and inattentive masculine cries, I sought the accidental
near inaudible love of the innocent, still capable of shattering,
no longer needing to hide the moment of rupture, inauspicious choice that it was.
Adoration inbuilt to destruct upon examination, the shame, and fear of
discovery, incalculable effects that might accidentally spawn a reality of

incalescence
incandescent.

I was incapable of getting the cat back in the bag, coughing up fur, broke
ill, wounded and still snapping in the throes (glee once more bullying) that incapacitate
and fibrous tissues incarcerate, straining against this pulsing
incendiary devouring soul (can you think when last you had a soul) that I recall.
Where was it, when was it, that inchoative moment when mouths were shut?
Trepidation at the incipiency of lapping up carbon monoxide, outs that are ins (necessary precept, teeth clenched, head up, lips for intravital care, pride like ill fitting panties).

Mortified, showing the pain, incise a mouth screaming, chewing, drooling.
This is not the time, no time that is more inclement with unprepared viscera,
but speeds the churning child incogitant of his potency.
The others, old men all, all incombustible, stained, ashed and proofed.
Not my brute sweet, truly scrumptious, incommensurate love off a cliff.
I incubate baby's breath and give birth to spiders