Glimpses

This art of wildness, to capture that instance, as to consider something fruitless; this fated agenda, that inner paradise, as to chisel an inch of reality; while lost to dreams, staring at naked souls, confounded by nuances: that snug cloth; that breath of skin; that ambivalent gesture. I thought a wrist as majesty: I thought a woman as glory, while friction seized our loins. I’m mad this way—stressing over measures, to see her as some sort of goddess; as so to perish, this restraint of prose, as to finally utter such nonsense: to picture this gait, compounded by pills, or that sober sadness, amplified by lust. I texture this thought, at fears to touch her, this need to run through artistry: this muse of foolishness; this path of poets; that tender ambivalence; as captured in movies—this stress of loins, while crying forbidden islands; as to meet through culture, that threefold cord—our bodies as electric as prophecy: to see her awaken—somewhere this plush desert, while radiant this storm: this man of fools, running through naked meadows, at one—this fiery mirage; while candles flicker—this soul for flesh—opened to parts of this ontic land; wherewith, this tear, for love is but lust, as one pining for a stranger: that must believe; this second of fools; as we cherish disappearance; this immortal angst, that terror of minds, as swimming towards literature; to pause at stoplights, peering by rearview, as to revisit such torture; this vest of fools, to rekindle a muddy pond, as to purify running water; this faucet of lust, while tugging at sanity, a womb as clever as magicians; to pull by measure, this frightened soul—at once—this mood of defenses; as crazy our souls, trickling through crevices—melting into walls. I’ve crawled this instance, somewhere this touch, to manage such attraction; where hell is pure, as goblins are favored, as a second is masterful; as to forfeit fears, this man of visions, while lurking in presence; that inching resonance, that pure consciousness, while to wonder of intentions. I’ll retreat this instance, as to savor such prose, a man smitten!