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.
