I can’t explain it, this proximity, to see it arise; this inner person, at once, personality, to sing a distant song; for long it lives, that season of manias, as peeking in peas; this feature of souls, as measured for violence, where it sings for peace, this fame for glory, that inner piano, this sad lyre. I felt a friend, at souls this night, while stressing that outer sun: our casual love; this fried estate; that pressure by arts this wealth. It couldn’t live, as yet it lives, this vehicle by force an urge; that wild madness, that irrational thought, that constant therapy; to explain to whom, this magnet of forces, this daily activity; to awaken hearing mother, a heart filled with chills, as to morph into someone different; if but a fortnight, as to compose with Mozart, this grave digging into souls; that deep confession, as feeling so small, to have attacked without measures; this thing of fools, stationed in insanity, while one fights to bypass pains. I must retreat, as spent for change, this speaking agility; to usher a horse, somewhere his soul, as leaping three tiers above heaven; this space of eyes, where worlds change, as seen at Ralphs; this place of spirits, roaming through aisles, our vision as bright as illuminations. It could be life, this deep attraction, to picture for perfect such music: this drifting wound; that artsy heartbeat; that centered tsunami; to love with motive, to move without motive, to finally die with motives; this calling wind, as inner whispers, that event never spoken; where actions retreat, while hell relaxes, this space of cries.
Saturday, November 26, 2016
Spun by Features
I’m gleaming demons, albeit, angels, a bit facetious; as grinning measures, those features peeking, to speak a confidant; that casual honesty, as opposed to lying, this woman with motives. I’m searching life, as never before, filled with mystic veins; those grains of joys, for sights are seen, that purpose with visions; to know as friends, those inner earthquakes, while suspicious of truths; this frequent request, at tears, a soldier, that dying for platoons. I refused a feeling, that outer sighing, that winded nursery. It was deep a crib, as sipping liquor, that time for teething: his mother’s tales—as half of an aspirin, this bottle of gin. I took to service, a ghetto-boy, those petals by chase his essence—to meet this woman, as patient as grandmothers, as forceful as fathers. Our winds are coming—this flux of deserts, to become for winters. We stood at panic, our beating hearts, as cursed for breathing; that spaghetti island, attempting for clarity, while monsters danced. I know a voice, as speaking a language, as soundless as nods. I saw a feature, as courted her soul, to demonize mine; but truth to arts, our words are few, this pier of imaginations; to find that light, cultured through nuance, that model for souls; that deep fire, cut for bleeding, awakened to fantasies; that spirit rubbing, that place of Jesus, to rebuke eternity. I know a friend, this silent power, as to flux a system; that brilliant ache, as known this life, this future of red doves. I heard a siren, to run next door, to witness a flurry of woes; that gravid affair, to neglect his senses, while permeated in beliefs; where it shouldn’t live, this grape of pains, this collage of scientists; but this is life, our churning brains, a feeling as a feature.
I can’t explain it, this proximity, to see it arise; this inner person, at once, personality, to sing a distant song; for long it lives, that season of manias, as peeking in peas; this feature of souls, as measured for violence, where it sings for peace, this fame for glory, that inner piano, this sad lyre. I felt a friend, at souls this night, while stressing that outer sun: our casual love; this fried estate; that pressure by arts this wealth. It couldn’t live, as yet it lives, this vehicle by force an urge; that wild madness, that irrational thought, that constant therapy; to explain to whom, this magnet of forces, this daily activity; to awaken hearing mother, a heart filled with chills, as to morph into someone different; if but a fortnight, as to compose with Mozart, this grave digging into souls; that deep confession, as feeling so small, to have attacked without measures; this thing of fools, stationed in insanity, while one fights to bypass pains. I must retreat, as spent for change, this speaking agility; to usher a horse, somewhere his soul, as leaping three tiers above heaven; this space of eyes, where worlds change, as seen at Ralphs; this place of spirits, roaming through aisles, our vision as bright as illuminations. It could be life, this deep attraction, to picture for perfect such music: this drifting wound; that artsy heartbeat; that centered tsunami; to love with motive, to move without motive, to finally die with motives; this calling wind, as inner whispers, that event never spoken; where actions retreat, while hell relaxes, this space of cries.
I can’t explain it, this proximity, to see it arise; this inner person, at once, personality, to sing a distant song; for long it lives, that season of manias, as peeking in peas; this feature of souls, as measured for violence, where it sings for peace, this fame for glory, that inner piano, this sad lyre. I felt a friend, at souls this night, while stressing that outer sun: our casual love; this fried estate; that pressure by arts this wealth. It couldn’t live, as yet it lives, this vehicle by force an urge; that wild madness, that irrational thought, that constant therapy; to explain to whom, this magnet of forces, this daily activity; to awaken hearing mother, a heart filled with chills, as to morph into someone different; if but a fortnight, as to compose with Mozart, this grave digging into souls; that deep confession, as feeling so small, to have attacked without measures; this thing of fools, stationed in insanity, while one fights to bypass pains. I must retreat, as spent for change, this speaking agility; to usher a horse, somewhere his soul, as leaping three tiers above heaven; this space of eyes, where worlds change, as seen at Ralphs; this place of spirits, roaming through aisles, our vision as bright as illuminations. It could be life, this deep attraction, to picture for perfect such music: this drifting wound; that artsy heartbeat; that centered tsunami; to love with motive, to move without motive, to finally die with motives; this calling wind, as inner whispers, that event never spoken; where actions retreat, while hell relaxes, this space of cries.
