Outer Regions

I took to margins, so inadequate, at tears to scratch this palm; as needed this language, a friend as villain, to protest too much; this place of atmospheres, as pure controversy, to whisper, “I soul you”; this furious gust, wherever converted, this welkin incantation. I took to margins, as misinterpreted, to find for psychs this legend: our mothers dying; our fathers binging; those remarkable scars. I took to love, this deep enchantment, to find that love suffers—akin to gods, this want for fathers, this aversion to pain; to seek for joys, as something misread, to miss this closing paragraph. I took to hatred, this heart infused, as becoming this anger; that mad piano, that sad violin, that furious psaltery—as missed this life, this savage as beauty, where two were keen; while tipping that toe, this lagoon of passion, cringing at inactivity; as so secluded, this inner misfit, at once, a humble fool; where eyes would linger, to ask of conscious—our names scribbled in spirit-blood. I took to laughing, a sphinx for drums—this scummy feeling; as so ashamed, for mother lost, this innocent soul; to protest much, while claiming his part, to realize hands that destiny. It becomes mischief, this thing of thinking, to align thoughts with honesty; this brutal force, at choice this pain, stricken where demons dwell; this dell of lies, this valley of ooze, as one impassioned to evade. I took to nonsense, at love those failures, a fool to his journey; to cover that heart, while soil bled—our nights warring ghosts. It was soon to perish, scratching at scars, this bar his brain a level incredible; to find for deepness, this inner misprint, as souls to voices that response. We died gently, a life as coming forth, a stomach as reaching; to see for swans, or bright eyed gooses, that space that hectic his soul. I took to words, a bit obscene, where tender this earth of violence; to fall asunder, while tugging skies, this art his pain shifting clouds. It mustn’t be real, dying as to feel life, a bit too flat for conversation; to find his home, this analytical light, a bit spacey by noon; that tile convergence, nails chipping into walls—an inferior reading Isaiah; this moonish veil, a seraphim with coals—our lips immortalized; or better to Moses, a man of few words, that pain that fortress—this misadjusted silence; to fall a fever, forever this mountain, to finally arrive—denied!