I
can’t afford it, this outward chasing, this inward dream; as born to love,
where such is broken—this kingdom of diamonds; as somewhat the deaths, this kef
of passions, counting side effects. Oh this heart-chakra, this soul-cave, this
inner destiny; for torn this fountain, a cup of cultic wine, a vat of emotions;
to cry this heaven, these stars of night-wisdom—the effects of Asia; to have
but one soul, this universal dungeon, scraping and clawing at infinity;
wherewith, to love, to churn the forbidden—this faucet of feelings. I carry
affection, for something so gray, a turn through midnight haze; to figure a
phantom, as some type for kinship, this mission of explosives; as burning
through guts, this beautiful woman—the nature of an actress; to have for fires,
this inner chamber, to rev a woman’s flames. We die to vanity, a charm for
desire, this moment churning in chaos. We live confusion, adrift and dreaming,
as missing her heart; to have for passions, this midnight grave, as formed in a
fantasy; as to float through browns, as charged through turquoise, afraid to
utter hells. We spun a web, some type of friction, alive this outward infusion;
therewith, a dream, this living illusion, to uproot a prosaic drumbeat. I see
her floating, this type of dream, as mystic as Theresa; to have for missions,
this flashing of reigns, to court as if an error of pains. I see us more, as
born to folly, enlove with Juliet; as dying this circus, a bit too wired,
scratching at seas of turmoil; to sculpt this wave, a soul of visions, alert
this resurrection. It must be love, and it must be death, this round of fallen
births; as born through fevers, this harnessed daydream, to enter a shelter of
shadows; where tomorrow wakens—a slew of damages, as beige as a first hello; and
yesteryear, our arms fallin', as to welcome detachment; this grand mobility, to
feel for favors—this second of feeling admired.
