I’m
with several needs, this film as captured, that flash in mid-motion—as broken
this image, years at walls, clawing in bricks our fingernails. I loved a cobra,
this song by tents, as to morph into a person; this feral thesis, this inner
woman, this place by hearts a catastrophe; to become so vague, as reeling in
madness, to suggest this session of lust; that casual orgasm, searching
enlightenment, screaming within; that disappointment, cleaving to inner
phantoms, where hell spoke appeasing waves: that cave of graves, that needs to
desire, this wealth by way of turmoil; this deep psychology, at ease with
chaos, a bit flustered with order. I met her grieving, this scented angel, a
bit too raw for television; as was our pains, at seas that adventure, chiming
to something subtle; while hearing infinity, rebuking introjects, to fall into
seconds of ecstasy; as chasing addictions, this needs for adrenaline, that
shaking for rushing through tornadoes; this love for magic, to have it as
eternal, to wonder when times grow mundane; (but actions are furious, that
seeping argument, those sleepless hours, that three a.m. climax); to die with
grace, this German slant, while musing upon something different: that tall
woman, those sculpted legs, that angel’s face; as fully possessed, gnawing into
flesh, our blood trickling into dimensions. I thought for us, as some sort of
fool, our women reading our prose; to have attacks, to know our brains, that
fragment that dares appear; while bent through madness, where souls want
liquor, this a.m. rush; wherever this thing, this deep seated high, as addicted
to shifting lows; this craving of souls, that mystic professor, those climbs
through rights our wrongs; to have those feelings, while fraught with guilt,
while a friend sings our sadness. I met a cobra, as charming as magic, peering
at this invisibility. We dined in public, while seated at brunch, our words our
food for glasses. It shouldn’t be real, those antic skies, as dipping clouds,
where hell is everso near; as loving life, this child of woes, to pardon a soul
by mere classifications; but less to woes, as more to lust, tripping through
time; this fretted scar, abated by none, where wine pours into wounds.
