You
scribbled a fantasy—for strong the currents—to rescue passion.
I
sat for storms, the loins for fevers,
stationed
aside madness. There’s wretched bliss,
for dungeon cries, to feel familiar. There’s sabotage—this rain, a fleet of
young addicts. You scribbled a
fantasy—for earth is rawness—to issue life.
Its freshet affection, for short the thrill
—steeped
in depression. Its days of war,
searching
mental pictures, to see your image: the anger of winning, the shame of losing,
the dreams of the first century;
where
sparkles flicker, to endure warm chills, living through purgatory. We scribbled a fantasy, headed to
Catalina,
sprinting
with a runny soul; for thrills are light, to be that moment, where most are
normal. It’s close to life, a minor threshold, for the unexposed; but some are
flooded, a higher threshold, ever to leap; in which are woes, a fleet of
casualties,
raging
through psyches. There’s more
adrenaline—an ever to need, as calm as monks; for seas of waves, for higher
provocation, for more than chocolate almonds. I
fly
the wine, the wings of insight, to settle at a five; where this is rain,
the
skin to rash—scratching at eczema; for nerves are thin, to grin
through
shyness, a plug
filled with wires.
