Our
glory is rain, the pains of strife, embedded in phantoms. I run and clash and dance and ruin this
graph of tears. I can’t but panic, to realize the selfish, ever to want for
more; as death this flame, engraved in night-tremors, a wave-beat the shore. We
couldn’t but love, for this is fatal, to banish four lives; as nevertheless a
crime, worthy of adventure, a lifetime of passions; as creeping an island, a
four month tryst, enlove with sheer evasions; to scold this dream, as replacing
thoughts, to avoid an avalanche. I
cry the wounds, to die the glory, as one dead and walking; to feel for heavy,
that close to drunk, reminiscing our childhood. Oh to reel it, this frame of
portraits—the math of a decade. I see
us younger, as enticing high school, to win us in heaven’s breath: the art of
love, the fiat of betrayal, these years speaking of remedy; to invest a river,
as to divest an ocean, and pouring into a canal. I’ve lost a bundle, stranded at fountains,
screaming at Vegas; to calm and cleave and candor to a leftist lot of visions.
It mustn’t be ill, to fashion the forbidden, as something to soon lose
faith. I’ve crashed, as to reckon
pure deceit, to know it outlives the righteous. What for gods, enlove with mortals, to
break heaven’s womb! I’m there and
dying—to know for comfort, this thing striving for luxuries; to have for words,
that time to perish, as born to resurrect; where Buddha screams, as a wife
mourns, to reckon the son’s eyes. It
couldn’t be ill—this fever of chance, to meditate the great illusions; whereat,
are scars and semen, and dreams and dungeons, and bolts and barriers; to hold
for one, the times of yore, as a scarred Kierkegaard. I love us living, this field of torture,
to passion the nightlife; as forever the streets, too old for rhythm, as to
find comfort in armchairs. I love us more, ten piers from God, as trekking
through desert strife; to bold the future, and frame the fever, as one buried
in a world of sorrows. It couldn’t be
ill, to want sophistication, even as the law of nature; to shift through
static, and strike through stress, as one seeking a series of Satans; for this
is life, this asexual spirit, to dictum a heater burning within. I love us less, to die the more, as to
resist this thing founded as a flavored furnace. It couldn’t be real, this
night as bleeding, the days as grieving—the job as a place of warfare; and yet
to perish, is yet to live, surfing such kinetic thumps. I found a heart, beating near a river—it
leaped and became a brain. Oh for
fancy, to stress this art, to finally find disappointment.
