Tugging Ribbons

Out of Westerns, this fretted love, so cheered this death; to find us blotted, sitting in grime, that closer to encounters; as crying this love, infected within, boiling in infatuation. Our days so short—our waves so sudden—our room filled with fog; to find his way, sniffing a golden womb, seared in this madness; but oh for odors, or that odorless pit, screaming as God called. It mustn’t be real, partaking of dreams—this open casket; as to walk in silence, this platonic sex, as casual as scrambled eggs; this green onion affair, dripping into dungeons, as bright as a newborn baby; while happy to sing, this tare his life, with affections for this woman; but life as fingernails, this continuous growth, that desperate need for trimming; as born in turn—to ponder this soul, so deep as to crash: this feral world, this humble soul, this mangled paradox. We must for touching, as climbing this mythic, our tears acidic as lemons; as dying to venture, this aching trance—her thighs a valley of orchids; to cut this soul, where others travel, that trek through a scented city; as more to wisdom, this faint expression, as falling where passions sing—of tears with grime, as filthy as love, while a donkey laughs hysterically. It mustn’t be real—this inner angst, blinking with confusion, wrecked by powerful lust; while pulled this love, as sharing an image, that closer to forfeiting closure; but let it be gentle, this maze of masks, where a tyrant rules our kingdom; else to perish, webbed in agonies, nibbling a woman’s jilting; to have that face, assumed as amazed—shivering with tremors; while this is life, that deep compromise, where love plays stupid: singing to clouds; dancing to moons; that further into terrors.