I’m lost enlove, this inner flavor, as captured by bees;
this outer coyote, present and tipsy, to see but one woman; as chiseled
designs, this telic fool, drifting through professors; that psych that
couldn’t, that poet that wouldn’t, that woman that died. I’ve cried the noon,
as blue as marbles, those inherent eyes; to find a premise, this patient
grimace, where a kiss became witness; to something gray, that fever—my heart,
as terrorized by glamour; this inner Simpson, as a mere cartoon, foolish and
flavored by love; this cryptic heart, beating forbidden cadence, as coming for
love. I’ve lost this life, consumed in heaters—the patience of mortal-immortals. Our waves are chastised, the
sand is dancing, the skies have written poetry; while hell is grieving, for she
fell enlove, as crooked as this plug; those fatal cries, that fevered ceiling,
that art that reneged on life; to comb a fortress, while plucking plums, a
razor to a grape. I’m torn for love, this beastly woman, as cultured as wild
coyotes; while heaven rises, this greasy tomato, splattered upon greasy nachos;
this feral love, a spoon to a burrito, a fork to ribs; where it mustn’t die,
this creative address, knowing that love is silence; as filled with actions,
this mystic grant, a series of 401k’s. Tell the chief—that I love his daughter,
as ready for rituals; that fevered grin, as holding it back, where Satan
appears: this inner fool, as cruel as darkness, as rich as Eden; to have this
wealth, accused of flagrance, and wounded mortally; so love ‘til death, this
inner tear, to enter as a ghost—this phantom woman, afraid to exhale; for life
is banded, the mortal for infinity, as grounded in cement; while earth has
perished, to hold matrimony, a fool and his love.
