I never
died, as wisdom pursued, this man that lied; as cried his brains, as special as
dormant, as tepid as infatuation; to wow this art, streaming through music, as
feeling, Rihanna; this immoderate woman, this fevered icon, this social day
call; where hell is magic, this glowing eight-ball, this tempered mistreatment.
I never died, this stomach of ghosts, seeping into vomit; where nothing loved,
while ever we died, a pistol to his forest. I need a zone, this wandering soul,
as our nights failed: this crystal grace, this pedicured rule, this jest with
polish. I loved the sights, this illegal run—our father’s jurisdiction; as born
this strife, this outer dungeon, our childhood mother’s; where arias dwell, as
symphonies sink—into that mystical mountain; those caves she won, those hours
he died, that moment they kissed. I’m jaded these nights, a sibling as rival, a
sister he couldn’t see; this rustic alley, pitted in our valleys, running
through our vacant daddy’s; that art he loved, that way he lived, his semen as
a grown wing; as floating adrift, this fading flower, this Buddhist-emotion;
while stars fell, as rules yelled, as professors cringed—this moment in time, a
peach for a fool, as running through Bethlehem. I never died, as to ever die, a
pair of brains, manic; as shooting dice, to feel such hearts, this miracle
lighthouse. It was us this garden, this ill-gotten attraction, a reflection of
his ills; while mother cried—these tears of loss, for control was unworn; the
days of his life, the seconds of her style, that instant we cried. Oh to
disappear—seated in a segment, infatuated with love; this feeling, pash, this
crooked forbidden, as speckled in jewels. Oh to love us, this fiction in time,
as frantic this moment—while earth is bleeding, this storm of woes—our plights
of joy.
