I saw us gently, to renew the soul, as precious as a two
year old; to confide in love, the plights of Kerry, afflicted by Simone. I took
refuge, in fantastic thoughts, a new home in Brentwood; that electric square, a
woman broken bare, this aesthetic masterpiece: those hives my soul, forbidden
from culture, too alive to perish; this sad sorrow, affronted by demarcations,
infused by a certain scent; this wealth of fools, that star of crows, while
this thing punctures brains. I’m scratching skin, with nerves shot through
hell, enlove with a gesture six years old. We came for peace, this beast of
burdens, at wars before a naked woman; this filth of scars, abandoned to chaos,
chewing something extremely sour. I came for deaths, this progeny of woes, to
realize these vivid paintings; that course of whispers, enchanting sorrows,
where love grew through butterflies; that inner chase, skating from scents and
souls, as cultivated as the first day of class. I thought of Lena, as
misperceived, the jest of too much whisky. I laughed the pain, a child to
Beyoncè, but a trespass to Rihanna; where it couldn’t be real, this weaving
Shakira, a bit too gone for closure. Our years have wisdom, embedded in
crevices, this man for watching the poison of serpents; as far the grief, this
chief of demons, alert to this need for filth; to separate parts, this struggle
for cleansing, as to concretize a nation; this feathery float, at once
contended, for we yen the high hills. It shouldn’t be pain, this thing of
tears, where Jolie welcomes a son; and it shouldn’t be tears, those moments
cherished, where Aniston took for wings; for this is culture, this world of
suits, too proud to confess the patience; where love is tropes, or more for
similes, as casual as a glass of tea; to see such ice, this melt for
temperatures, as embodied in friction: the space of his mind; the art of her
woes; that attraction bleeding through screens: as pressure felt; as villains
mislead; as this portrait we had to sculpture.
