It’s a headache, this sea-salt adventure, this place of
vacillation—while wolves watch, imparting hypnosis, this terrible atmosphere. I
met those eyes, shimmering with vengeance, for another man’s crime. I paved the
streets, manic, plus, depressed, this fusion of paradoxes: pulling at gravel;
tugging at flesh; alone at this outer vineyard; why to love again, such
thrumming hearts, forever this notion of passion: Rolex watches; Bentley
Coupes; this fantastic trauma; to lose such gifts, cleaving to poetry—this
woman as pagan his nightmare: to find her early; while ever so late; this
tragic costume; as born to folly, embedded in dreams, this dire catastrophe. It’s
more to lots, this furious ocean, where headaches grow intensely: this miracle
soul; this fusion of lemons; as mere the frontier; where hell was roses, that
enchanting kiss, that foreign texture. We’ve danced with herbs, while pruning
nouns, at reach this thought to ascent. I must return, racing through islands,
camouflaged in fatigues: this dream of souls, to hold and let go, while one
pines forever: this deadly passion, mourning as heaven dwells—at tears this
lavish diamond. It mustn’t be us—this wild stratagem, as to enslave a would be
friend; where this is life, our willing souls, gripping for grabbing a falling
wall. I’m want to love us—speeding through images—this pulse, pressure, and
passion; for dying was law, this furious headache, at war with something
precious: those stairs within—that wounded trench—a Pharaoh of feelings;—exchanged
for pleasures, this hope of pride, but a petal to a storm. It shouldn’t be us,
tripping through caves, flooded with darkness; this vision of days, peering at
petroglyphs, embedded deep our psyches; this rich infusion, captured through
essence, glaring into colors; that iridescence—as puzzled afar, this scar but a
stem for love.
