Tell
me not love—as tossed to traffic, to induce such pain; and never lie, this
grand gesture, the gravel of heartbeats; for what was earth, when hell was
fervent, and what was hell! I love us distant, to chisel dreams, as fully
delusional; where said delusion, forms illusions, to witness life as allusions.
I carved a name, as gray as toxic, this deep seduction; and what for life, to
meet by chance, as stilling a kiss. We’ve taken a plow, steady to look back,
unfit for kingdoms. But tell me not love, as abused by love, a light protruding
within; to cry this art, to portend this agony, to die in our laps; where tears
are ruptures, to finger the keys, a piano as its maestro; to play as self, to
summons Beethoven, to infuse Mozart. I died alone, crowded with peers, afraid
to speak. Life was terror, a flood of embarrassments, why-fore, a tear strikes
the surface? I love us paused in silence, aching in fury, grieving in balance;
I love us breaking shifts, to ponder as friends, to love this image; I love us
that other self, pulling at chi, thrumming through caves; oh to love us, as bent
the horror, to love the breakthroughs. It’s crazy this reign, to sequence
frequencies—but tell me not love, as to flourish that moment, as enlove-distorted,
as crying, Bloody Jesus! Its highs
that churn! Its lows that burn! Its hell to inform; and God to instruct! I
fever through us, as chastised by life, as steering a catastrophe; but tell me
not love—as featured in cinemas, this inward denial. We chime as beige, to
search for sandy, alert to flaming blackholes; to drift within, as to scream of
love, three generations craving; wherewith is passion, and sudden wails, to
grip for guts. Say not of love—as to break a lung, as to defy the rounded
graves.
