Saturday, October 1, 2016

This Newborn Feeling

It’s our bloodstream, forever at war, filtered through a thin survival; to see it with passion, this thing of daughters, at odds with a psych; this burning feeling, attributed to souls, as clairvoyant as mercy; to have this death, as courting silence, that further evolved. I love the essence, cringing with Yahweh, whereto, the arteries flush. Our blood is moving, as soaring with spirits, this screen spewing letters; to have that vision, this inner therapist, while guiding intuitions. I’ve lied to perish, as such a selfish soul, pleading this dwelling. I couldn’t sleep, wherewith, is violence, a segment of personality; while falling through grace, as loving this faith—this faceless soul. It had to be us, streaming through words—fevered by inner sensations; to write theatre, this valve of beings, in touch with this potent feeling; as bark and petal, this fruit of lights, a century of our forthcomings. I speak to souls, as folded in linen, a sea of soldiers scraping static; that faraway dream, a daughter as a friend—a mother as tolerant; to find this vex, as hexed as fools—this proverbial night-scare. I tremble and dance, attuned to life, a participant through woes; this inner professor, grieving as mystic, to see it for colors. It mustn’t be us, so far as torn, bleeding upon carpets; to fly so heavy, as filled with vomit, to puke at the tribunal. Our cloth is teary, a handkerchief of pains—slicing this cake of furies; wherewith, are sights, this intellect of veins, as surging through millennia: so coursed this night, frightened to say goodbye, those cries piecing our neighbor’s dreams—while broken this light, a particle for a soul, those things I couldn’t say.  There’s rain this life, as treasured by love—this woman a fifth of my gin; to see this flight, as yearning one verse, this curse driving this prose. It had to be real, while scudding sorrow, a man at peace with yogis; this fuel of grays, centered in complex, as tested by spirits; this woe of visions, while shattered near death, as alive as a newborn kitten.

Strumming a Harp

By language we speak to audibility and coherence. To compose to feel understood, in spite of language applied. A person spends years misunde...