He Tasted Some Type of Love

Memories have life—as tokens have hate, as mother had venom. He needed a mind, distinct from hell, as one independent; to trust in love, as featured in memoirs, this soul of a psych. He knew for eyes, to cry this night, a vision speckled on a brain. Was it left or right, the silent goodbyes, as vocal as a soulprint? Earth has perished, streaming through words, as darkness for light. They speak of dreams, shadowed in melancholy, a woman his father’s age; to know for death, a professor’s tear, to pardon a psychologist. It couldn’t be real, as thrilled through fancy, to enrich a dying cycle. He thought it abstract, this life of jewels, as concrete as a fairytale; in which are days, splayed in pain, a father’s livid ghosts. He awoke a demon, a psychotic feature, as found this woman; to kneel by gut, a flood of introjects, to identify healing. Our art is heartless, a gown as segue, to enter with trepidation; but she dances, to become aloof, shaking with temblors; as to die for lies, as to crawl for wealth, a woman twice his wisdom. It couldn’t be real, as sex to a youngster, fully enchanted. We’ve felt for fevers, as dead as alive, to structure this balance; to lose this moment, wherewith is hell, to retreat from love. It wasn’t for it was, for darkness the breath, to taste this woman; but oh the tension, to avoid feelings, to win control; but this is life, to deceive conscious, as to act this part; where love breeds, a kingdom of fools, to single out one Raca. He couldn’t to breathe, this fire of flames, to touch this woman. She ached his pain, to cry his name, as fever to a furnace. Oh for art, to cross with motion, as bent towards destruction. They favor love, as hell to love, a canyon in a psyche. He cried as pain, this attic roach, to fumigate love; where grit was rage, a patent this life, as graves to a mystic.

But he couldn’t die, for music blasting, this web of deaths; as graphic through lights, to grip for thighs, teeth deep the flesh. He lied to love it, this woman’s dreams, as courted through hells. We see it alive, to die the love, as bent on fiction; and love wailed, as if to perish, bruised and dying. He fathomed beige, as gray as knitting, the motive of a child; for sheer his pleasure, for sheer her measure, as two alive for treatments. They blended fevers, asearch to finish, as two broken alive. It couldn’t be—this fatal kiss, this attractive death; to perish the increments, this German breath, as to collapse in arms; that shy of life, as satiated fools, as a gremlin to chocolate. He spoke of game, but so attached, to rub a silk suit. She laughed the love, fully enlove, to give it more. They broke ceilings—to sheets soaked, the drapes shattered. Oh for public eyes, to mend a wound, a suture to cloud reason. It couldn’t be love, to pass introjects, as one for medicines: the harsh hellos, the warm goodbyes, a woman soon to perish. Dear for God, the tides are censored—the earth is blank, and nothing but love; as torn asunder, the breaking oceans, as moist as a tight tornado. He stormed the grounds, as a parish torn, a priest madly enlove; to enter glory, as one afraid, to grip her throat. It couldn’t be, as sin to saints, to faint at climax. Oh for mercy, the chills to trickle, a man eye to eye; where God spoke, of man and rib, the two as helpmeets. It wasn’t us, to claim insane, tide torn to bone; and yes it was, the long sessions, to open a womb: the cries of never, the beats of favor, as to awaken in sweat. He loved her more, to distance from hell, as one gnawing a furnace; as she laughed aloud, and cried the same, an animal newly born.