Intrusion Our Width

I reread it, his subconscious, apparent to few. I felt it, this unconscious, appalling to many; this inner river, this sea-salt adventure, this thing of headaches: if only to explain, this conscious ocean, as it mingles with Freud; while to journey with Jung—this place our eyes adrift; that stereotype, as pertaining to truths, or that sudden leap-year; this heart of cavities, that space a crime to avoid, where seasons become séances; that gravel to soul, this crawling repentance, that second grieving with nuns; as association, this style of prose, while pictured this Cajun wind; that daughter—our mothers with child, eating marrow from bone.  I know a woman, peering into pain, this legacy of souls. We’ve courted hearts, as pulling at purgatory, as did Mechtild; this mystic aura, as lives our souls, conjured in webs; this angular flight, this slanted nuance, this sudden change in prose. We can’t retreat, as too close to perish, rewound in scripture; this place of power, sculpting a sense of self, left to peers and hellbound.  I love us seizing, those very moments, where we season our intestines; that type of substance, this affectation, as caressing neurotransmitters.  We have secrets, this reverent feature, as peeking to dominate eyes; this broken song, played upon guitars, where strings are shipping volts; that inner music, that outer ballet, those times thrumming violins; as to sink deeply, that space of essence, that substance poking our awareness. Its concentration, and ever your mind, as poignant as Milton’s; this system we sing, this naïve poet, this hectic proliferating—as slowing in pace, this face of years, that poignant silence.  I must advance, as looking for peace, but where would I be?—this wealth of love, as untrained that death, trekking this mile of dangers; to see that face, crying as to breathe, this devotion so deep—as charged this life, a treasure this song—another dose of sea-salt.  I’m groping winds, as terrified artsy, painting this forbidden portrait; as changing through times, this earth a claw, whereto, we gnaw on inner fantasies: this moving motion, that electric light, our souls as friends of Maslow; to sentence this fear, as longing your hand, but a fool his dream—and stationed this air, as typing upon chi—this message a heavy intrusion.