We met miracles, silenced by reactors, this vicious
heart-night; as plagued this soul, seeking stronger than presence, afraid of
daylight; this place of fusions, this socket to a dream, as we met we shouldn’t
be: this vision in pockets; this marvelous fantasy; as to travel through
London; where hells lurk, while galas speak, this enchantress of woes; to
lighten our souls, to embrace our eyes, to cover this melancholy with rain:
that deep confusion, this mortal wound, as bled in spirit. I loved for little,
as all was musing, at less to manicure impressions. Its vague this art,
stitched at seams, this scream echoing through hearts; to structure frames,
this mind of diamonds, flowing as falling into delusions; this sore confession,
where hell is beautiful, as gorgeous as a ethnic queen. I was speaking France,
scudding Rome, this Italian poet; to glance but once, whereto, I glanced but
thrice, intrigued with such agonies: that air of wit—that sadness from
literature, that strength through dying. (I must confess: I love those of us that
perish to resurrect). It becomes
life—this vest of splinters, while plucking to sight fusions; that dream of
prose, to find that muse, as motivated to write an album. It couldn’t be
perfect, as such to sacrifice, this loft of pleasures—or more to comforts, to
trek up valleys, staring at Dead Sea Scrolls. I thought to unravel, as saying so
little, where pieces form an image. I loved as a child, curious in shadows,
peeking as not for sights; that death of lights, to perish through charms, at
ease to die this affliction. Oh for journeys, meeting psychs—of every stature,
peering at floating thoughts—or more academies, stationed in tomes, piecing
this life together; as certain benefits, this land of delusions, about which,
we fly to chaos; that silent tug, where thoughts are deliberate, while a heart
thumps aloofly, this channel as strange as islands; where souls meet, a similar
plane, invested in particular vineyards.
I thought of daughters, this plight of fathers, as to see such writhing;
this too close rain, this inner madness, this love that couldn’t sing; as
broken parts, alive in souls, this casual heartache—or fleeing portraits, as
time would sing—that second a breath of cheer; to believe it settled, where
confusion inflamed—this notion of minds adrift; as soon this voice, to grave
its beats, as drums committed to chaos; this fabulous presence, as pushing for
nothing, aside this fabulous presence; to linger for months, while arts to
push, a piano through crevices. I heard
a name, to muse a soul, lost in rituals; to flee a feeling, as more ensued, this
living-room of memoires; that inner credenza, flooded with letters, where such
as oak is cracking. It lives afar, so near this light, our souls oxymoronic—as
filled with satire, about a calling motif, to search this mirror of fools;
while purple our rose, or beige our stars, those maroon heartbeats; to sentence
a feeling, to life in prison, while vibrations allure a falling church. We
can’t but frantic, this lot of diamonds, fettled by pearls this dream; as
sighted through brains, this deep resistance, to find this thing insisting; but
what for feelings, as gray as skies, this want for nothing. It’s a must to
capture, this vague sensation, this presence without a motive; this furious
dream, this vision of screams, this face within faces; as effaced at war, this
charm of woes, while composing to madness; that inner psych, or heart to
throws, at tear, this ache of prose. I’ve found it nature, embedded in wiles,
as to live this wake of times: to become that woman; or to live as writer; to
enchant a nation with arts; as formed in passions, awakened by vagueness—this
ambivalent feeling: to court a vibe, as to grow immortal, this agony reaching;
where soon is death, a legacy pinched—this torment a rose to a thought; to love
as torn, this thing of wars, as searching through times; where arts were sweet,
as to strike a feeling, to know we infused madness.
