Hell Is Flipping

We arise through hells, this future bliss, as forgotten by hells; to culture this wealth, the grain of your thoughts, the features of this heart. I’m barely thinking, while fretting this scar—the music blasting;—to offset thoughts—our swan a legacy, our minds a hell-pit. I’ve died in you—eyes swelling with tears, as to rebuke this feeling; and I’ve cried in you, filled with rage, and lying to a psych! But hell is heaven, for one familiar, with nothing but hell; and hell is segue, the motion of its meaning, to side with, Catherine. I’ve broken mirrors, and shattered windows, screaming at reflections. I’ve given up, pulled by midnights, ushered and driven. I loved a scar, the puss dripping, this infected wound. I’ve lied to God—this All Seeing Eye, hiding in wounds. I’m filled with tears, as to love the arts, as filled with Satan; to wrestle and chide, that closer to Christ, as to fall through portals; this trance affect, this mother’s wisdom, this fool-hearted panic; but never again, to love confusion, to rescue a demon; for hell is notions, this bird as shadowed, such wings as flipping. Have we forgotten, the beginning of plots, where one was an innocent dove? I beg this life, for justice this love, to ruin the hells of this dream; as burdened this path, as liquor this math, crashing into imperfection. We know for psychs, but a fraction this healing—incumbent upon souls; and we know for shrinks, as holding composer, but filled with disdain. I can’t but level: the hells are crispy, the tears are brilliant, the past is living; as a product this life—this case of mirrors, to know what he was: this villain of souls, this cold atmosphere, this prison feigning completion; as love was reaching, a sage in a suit, and brave to trespass; where people see, this beige mirage, flipping through hells; as born this death—his mother an omen, filled with evil skies. It couldn’t be—this flex of souls, as God broke the ceiling; but more to hells, this riddled maze, forever at the forefront. We must imagine, this twofold reality, as something ordained.        

Frankincense And Time

I’m looking for something, the flavor of grandness, featured in psychoses. I speak in silence, the countenance of rain, as radiant as sunshine: this inner petal, this outward rose, the two mingling in twilight; brought to perfection, this cavelike cemetery, walking with broken souls. I mean not for sadness, as dwelling the human condition, infused by multiple poets; to read her words, as confused and clear, this paradox plaguing a young swan. I know for Sophia, her streams of chaos, sorting through knick-knacks; even your soul, thrumming through, Traci, conflicted with intuitions. I’ve cried a cygnet, afraid to love, as in need of a muse; to find this life, a fuse in a freezer, asearch for vibrant warmth. I found us early, the decades to come, a prison seen as freedom; this aloof air, as miseducated, reeking with confidence. I was dying to find you, this equal your worth, to share this intimate pain; so cry this poesy, or lie this calmness—the angst of Shakespeare; where days are years, this second confounded by faith—this podium bleeding dead men; affected through passions, crashing into pillows—the room keeps moving!     I loved your name, the essence of mystics, clashing with realities; in tune this birth—it was us as babes—our legacy planted in Cush; to sense a vibe, at once uncouth, as to confront a would be liar; but time has fashioned—this wealth of grace, a zombie as a newborn human; to shed the confidence, as to reveal reality, as to linger in Humble Valleys; to see your face, restricted in prose, to love that one tell; this outer angst, this vat of days, this crazed mentality; while buried in you, and buried in life, this block of knitted thoughts. I hated to know us, for love was so perfect—this false impression; to want our wiles, the earth as witness, condemning our wiles; as I drifted this fantasy, a billion dollar wine—this inward soul through grace.      

Yogic Thunder

We know about courage, this journey with love, this infinite entity; born with fevers, escaping nigh death, filled with hunger; so to fantasize, this rare intrusion, aimed at gestalt realizations; where months become circles, the energies of Asia, by way the travels of Egypt. I’ve loved a swan, this point of unrest—your eyes craving this love; brought into self, this battle with chi, at once to feature your face: the cries of belief, as distinct through faith, where waves become entities. It was us this dream, the rising of tears, as using each for stepstools; ravished by rain, to see this new self, forever courted through mysteries. I’ve chanted through glens, as remote as television—your mind trespassing caves; where cartoons bleed, the fever of his faith, where electricity probes the heart; as felt in tensions, the smiles of agony, to know for this sage event. I’ve lied to self, to capture sanity, as feigning the slopes were shallow; but steepness this death, defeated through triumph, to win so dear the loses; this broken wholeness, this ceiling upon skies, this sudden breakthrough; where laughter cries, forever the pains of bliss, as finding your face—as loving your wound—as screaming your cries, as attached to the credence of your speech. I’ve found for luxury, the measure of your volts, at once a product of your prayers; to know for closure, this unstable thought, filled with promise; ever your soul, skating dimensions, at rest to awaken transfixed; this inner trance, as eyes roll backwards, as the body can’t move. It’s sheer the Light, moving through particles, defined through intuition; this vibrant force, at one with disorders, to have cultivated crevices; to thrust into orbit, the depth of sickness, as to arrive at a state of wholeness. I surmise deeply, at once a fugitive, infused by reflections; this secret of souls, threshed through lightning, ravished by Buddhist’s thunder.

You Move Through Stems And Soar

I love us as unborn—drifting through time, a heartbeat without origin; to conjure your name, this vague linage, as so confined to manners; where loving your soul, this kernel of a mind, explodes with impact. I must with dalliance, this Cajun exploration, to know us as dancing: that twinkle of reason, those beige eyes,—that furrow of a brow; to touch this trebled womb, as to cup a slipping thigh, as so enthused with explosion. I must return—where facts dictate fantasy, this crayon life-print; to see us at war, occasioned with trembles, as a smile to a ghost. It haunts us more,—this dark piano,—musing through triune sentences; to fall through heaven, as to capture hell, a vase lunged at a mirror; where it mustn’t be art, this ting of infusions, as to outlive our breath-prints. I venture your soul, this wealth of dignities, far too advanced for fancy; or the moon is hiding, at tryst with love—the sun a bashful witness! I laugh to ponder, this dark morale, camouflaged in innocence; but more these thoughts, of virtuous women, at soul a sacrifice! I mourn to fathom it—this torn estate, burdened by perfected actions: this war of angels, tugging for adventure, for one far too advanced; as to frighten a soul—the depth of intimacy, wailing in tongues! I’ve cried of facts, semi-awakened, to wish the fairest rest: as far your soul, as dear this heart,—a soul-print away from darkness. I love us more, a muse to a Pianist, a ballad to a Musician,—to plague the maestro, this feral sheep—the entrails of wolfish minds; indeed, to vacillate, from angel to sinner, as one inept dearly; where passion is law, as to forsake morale, that closer to igniting salvation. I’ve laughed this death, at war to cherish, the sparkles of insanity; to come for greatness, a legend to self, striking through your consciousness; so do forgive, this fragment of thoughts, for one intrigued with fancies.          

     

Swan Scrapes

I’m crispy—Love—afraid to confess defeat—as lethal as unborn. I’m shorn at moments, a sheep sitting still, a stomach filed with growling; to love you as rain, this teacher of souls, this professor of dreams; as casual panic, as to wander through thoughts, as lifted as champagne. I write seldom, in honor to reach you, fraught with invisible tears; for love is passion, to hold to skittish moments, where a plate of sugar serves a purpose; to cry that light, a child on a raft, afraid of turbulence; but hearts to love, a family of souls, as catering to the swan. It’s a keen event, as to offset reason, to mismatch the world; but I touch a place, this inner palace, this shrine of fools; as burdened by aches, this furious sky, at ventures with itself; to pass the milk, this macadamia dream, while filled with chocolate chips; to slice a cantaloupe, or rather, watermelon, accustomed to whip-cream. We opt for coffee, and almond cocoa, that closer that moment; to speak of steaks, the rareness of meat, for a vegetarian at heart. I know not the volume, conditioned to thoughts, reaching through sheer concentration; as to pace a room, while speaking to chairs, or more, an image; as grand this love, this future ballet, as to cherish our fugue. It’s esoteric, and robbed by no man, this center spinning with glory. We know for hearts, that captive essence, as to speak to groups; this one person, a station of giants, projected through sheer thought; to greet you and laugh, for this ‘thing’ lives, a passage permeating pleasures; to die softly, as born to fly, this space a corner near hells; but this is love, this riddle in a vase, where a jar speaks of glory; so more to us, this future event, where love unravels and tears transform.

More to islands—Love—this deep enchant, as fueled by urgency—to write and gallop, striking through fields, chasing this inward soul; as born to perish, if not to live, a kid in a grown vessel; this lavish Light, to permeate rooms, this countenance of fools; as dig for deeper, this elusive word, made perfect in Scripture. I love you more, this score of years, as apprehended by brooks; this venture of graves, as pulling at gravel—the sheer affects. We can’t but dance, as hand to heart, this inner vibration; at core a war, for pains have grafted, wrapped in linen; these bloody clothes, as fraught with letters, the words of ambition; to knit the swan, in cyan portraits, where the mind is controlled; but more to reason, the thoughts of years, where one realizes their truest nature; this purple bag, this orange hello, this velvet tinge. I tore a vein, in order to retreat, to await an outcome. It’s skittish pride, this inner scandal, this vicious slime; but Spirit lives, this art in pace, this motion the heart; to die with joy, as to live with pain, alert to a misgiving.       

Eagles, Soaring Through Energy

I’m scratching through a cul-de-sac, at war with a village, to have enchanted life, by vague this art, a spark at that present moment: a city of koans, as favored deception, this love as dreaming; but so elusive, this thumping heart, but a voice to a mirror; as sheer affection, this lethal drum, addressing our tribal nature. One opened us up, by cold intrusion, this inner trespass. One embedded a fuse, the source of our plug-ins,—this parish of islands; to merge through tension, and surge through Venus, this trap exposing our cups. It’s terrible fear, this trembling soul, a purpose sold in scrolls; as living this way, a fugitive to self, a palm of soot, a rag said filthy.

I lied in youth, as coupled with anger, as to become this thing. Our foundation is scattered, mere chaff upon winds—this person—a thousand volts. It was early for mornings, this manic soul, as effusion of energy, while born this passion, laughing in sorrow, that shy from happiness; this upscale dilemma, shirted in chaos, her skirt as breathing seduction; to have angst, splayed upon concrete, invested in abstract wilderness; but it mustn’t be love, this sheer fusion, as to approach our human condition; where sickness dwells, for peering eyes, as devoted this pain—unto captured, through an inner circus, grappling with clowns and scarecrows.         

I’ve said nothing, but the spirit of words—this deep collision, chided by souls, where an underworld flourishes; this vast franchise, as named, Heartbeats, but a fraction of the heavens; but sheer our motive, our kingdom in a vest—this blessed affair; as casual injection, as lethal imbuement, this fusion so great our lives; to know for breath, this death of souls, to slant our hidden powers; where life is frantic, this secret cave, where humans pull towards souls. I’ve lived to perish, as pleading for air, while born of frantic skies; where passion omits—the deepest agonies, that manifested probing eagles.