What have we for more—this desperation, as hollow as gutted
lambs; this mental firework, to ignore the screams—this psych of the rivers;
where souls were lost, trekking that cavelike thought—this panting drumbeat. Oh
for desert clouds, this feeling for lonely, as to offset the sorrow; whereto,
this guileful charm, as utilized on self. Oh the utility, at odds with
Kierkegaard, at arms with Nietzsche; to dread the sanity, this harmful
disposition, to step into the in class. Let us run, filtered through flames,
groping the ropes of dementia; to have that tear, as crazed as Stephen King, as
loved as Olivia—the nights are calling, screaming like demons, pushing for
aphasia—where every line is destiny, that claim for mercy—this changing man; to
have us in segments, as wanting more, this more we couldn’t handle. The days
are riddled, this need to retreat—from this chambered mirror—this cry, as for
thunder’s mother, as for Zeus’ trauma; these heartless ways, the darkness of
this joy, to see her as a colorful sphinx; while we never knew, the extent of
this grave, a slave of something to come: this inner magnet; this passionate
sex; this net of losing—as to win through strife, this comet upon a tear, this
lavish threshold…while alone, at a crowded beach, counting dragons…as ever
distorted, this searching sky, a diamond at his liver. We thought the music,
this black pantomime, this white impression; as greedy as ghosts, as fervent as
phantoms, as broken as guitars—to hum a ballad, as to ballet a leaf, this spot
proof blood vine. We saw it lately, that rising cry, to feel it early—that
sacred volt; as born to live, while anger soars, this thing they haunt for,
this site of control; but what have we for—this desperation, as hollow as
gutted lambs!
