psych of terrors, abandoned to
injustice; that inner husband,
beating for submission—this psych
of woes; to relive death, this torn
endeavor, fretful about her daughter;
this day of tension, a bit robotic, to
garner symphony from no-man. I’m caged
with fire, this breath of horrors, a bit so
tipsy; as wheat to liquor, this massive
adventure, to tell her everything that time;
while broken alive, our parts glued to ice
—this melting storm. We loved as fools, this coursed
display, while to sing a crooked love. I found a
rose, as distorted as mother—this birth of a swan: I
found a cygnet—even mother’s features, as to loathe
my soul: I found a psych, either high for low—this
violin of ghosts. It couldn’t be real, frantic through
cyan eyes, this fuchsia feng shui;
as cartoon treasures—this pout a last goodbye, as
mourning mother’s dreams; for hell tells truths, that
vision we sought, as to mimic this gimmick of affairs.
I knew a queen, this stranded addiction, at peace with
journeys; to flavor this life, a son as a vessel, a daughter
as a casualty; to live such rain, this drain of souls,
flickering in an office; as one polarized, this temple
to see, but a number to a psych. It becomes life,
sipping as pastime, ever at ends to perish; this fervent
chase, racing with tears, alert to something frantic.
Mother pleaded—as this world grew deaf, a psych to
doubt sobriety
—as a fool called, begging for mercy,
at hearts to stipple this case.
It’s more for status, as admitting folly, this one
redeeming nothing: It’s more at play, this wheel
of parrots, at stature that broken chair.
I love us teething, as babes through woods,
blessed to audit life in a second;
to crash upon silver, abed this chariot, puffing
through tokens of sex;
—this marvelous feature—that sly remark, that thought
to feel such justice.
