Oh
for this condition; this serpent of tales; this world as mid-winds; as love
born to burn, as burnished iron, as built bare and blank. I must say more. There’s a skyward thorn, pushing into his
pelvis, as one peevish, paranoid and painted into panic; to feel a void, where
her answers are raw, that kind of shell that lives saltless; where the seas are
ghosts, and the lands are phantoms, a field of feral fires. I know more the currents, a vest of
identifiers, surfing somewhere the southern border; whereat, are dyes and
rubies, and Russian rules—to have this dream, where perfect is perfected, and
patience is plural; for I love her more, as mere psychology, as opposed to
misty experiences; to now know disdain, the pain of his mother—molded into a
maniac; where pain was love, and angst was normal, while forbidden was
trespass.
I hear us crying, as caved in a cactus,
controlled by city chaos; as loving this life, this serpent’s condition, surly
and faintly satanic. I must explain:
to that that we practice, we become a slave! [but] what of anguish, lost in
this body, accumulating joys; for the want of normal, this vale in quotations,
to witness a fist full of fears; this enchanting grave, this tombstone legend,
affected with tender terrors; whereat, is life, even a set of parts, where
contrast becomes a paradox. I must
say more. There’s this middle, as
permeated with confliction, where the highs induce the lows, and the lows
deduce the highs, and the cycle is endless; but thus lives this section, as
fully diluted, bleeding the dearth of dungeons; to have this charm, as a mystic
manic—this majestic faith; whereto, is blood, and hereby is life, and therefore,
is love; for such is richness, the rails of radiant madness—ever confused, at
war with self, and frantic this fever of fires.
