I imagine converse, to cage a bluebird, while singing about
glory; this deep secret, kept in crevices, to ask about this esoteric: our
mystic joys, conveyed in penmanship, this inner world—as hell confounded,
running amuck, as to digest a fly; while more this feeling, that field of
carnage, sprinkled in blood-man-ship. It had to exist, this existential, bent
through voyage; to calm a serpent, that gentle music—this flute of woes; to
pierce through eyes, as green as ivy, to utter such words of love; or more to
sable, this oven about a soul, as giddy as younglings. We must advance, for
psychs are pushing—this inward person; that cord of demons, avoiding mirrors,
for tiles might see: that broken song, alive this postage, to voice too much in
emails; that outer climb, casted to dregs, this ghetto enchantment; as torn for
hells, this telic forecast—watching as birds fall prey. I love us testy—ever a
sin—foreshadowed in sulfur; or more this ice, this place of dens, while purged
unto vomits; that cordial passion, holding with such this insight, at wars with
inhibitions. It can’t be us—while sipping fruits, alert to a rising feeling;
this space of tools, hammered into nails, where screws lay confused. I speak of
inversions—this inner wave—pulled at intersections; to drill this ark, this
heart of lies, as cradled as puppies; with more to purchase, through grit and
tears, to arrive at this vacant place. We watch for violence, this thing
limbless, as persuaded by madness; to have that feeling—absorbed in
agonies—longing this midnight cry. I sat in volts, that inner communication,
musing upon names; but it was us, jibing immortal—that time to sacrifice
silence; as shattered to drums, this cyan trumpet, at course to heal a nation.
It couldn’t be real, this welkin ambrosia, as kissing the queen's anklet; where
love is fair, that garden beauty, sitting while palming petals. I love us less,
for love is mediocre, as to find this inner catastrophe; while forming love,
this limbic heart, as saturated as inkpads; while this is life, this garbage we
sing, as filled with such majesty. We pause to linger, obsessed with grays, our
haze, this needle to a forest; as chosen deaths, this inner web, a bit too glib
for patience.
