Catch
us thus a dream, as fully psychotic, as to manage such features; but it’s more
a dream, as filtered through woes—the masquerades of mirrors; as to crack a
kernel, as twelve months an asylum, as to return like a falcon. I met a Zenist,
a soothing songbird, as devious as Al Capone; where stars grew weary, as tides
grew faint—of painting that false utopia. Our armchair is shredded, filled with
the claws of cats, while we swim through velvet scars; to have this moment, an
arrow as an impala, a Chevy as a peace-keeper. Our souls are knotted, a cactus
as a friend, falling as a fiend for the desert; as filled with debt, this
credit card plague—our bones the measures of a collar; and born to love, this
kettle affair, fumigated with high hopes; our streams of
pressure,
and this fatal dialogue, where Job acquiesces; and children are dead, this
slighted fact, for children were born; but damned be good, this temblor of
cries, the imprints of a quilted skull; to arise a beast, knitted as a
soulprint, as longing for a sculptress;
the
nights of pagans,
as
envisioned unclean, the opus and splendor of fire.
We’re
dying a field of gold, searching for finding, unaware of the measurements.
We’re to and fro, a fleet of firebirds, a palm of firebrand; to have this
death, cuddled in your arms, flaming through the methods of logos; to have this
dream, as visible as elves, as impassioned as leprechauns; where fire’s a ball
of voices, as furious as Yahweh—a vest of political nightmares; to see this
vision, as depicted upon graphs, to stray for this want of elusive; to grab us
not, this action of fiction, as real as tavern illusions.
