It’s
deep his guts, frying in guilt, eyes to water—as felt by Popes, this inner
papyrus, this mystic woman—as bloody as diamonds, filled by filth, as holy as
Jonah—to hear that voice, while tense this Jesus, a bit to rage. I could but
live, as to die trying, infused with jazz: our math deadly, this bidden
culture, as pure as midnight: unto madness, this fatal kiss—I wished your mind!
It took for courage, this daughter my blood, shifting through traffic, as
tragic as billiards, as plush as red ribbons, as gone as Starboy. Oh for mercy, to curse his soul, while slamming speed—or
more those nights, this Wiccan twist, spinning through black magic; that
graphic panic, as sheer ecstasy, crammed in a shoebox; to open terror, those
claws to plastic, gnawing her own face; where life is bandits, and young
tycoons, as leaping for Latin women. I felt envy, to cry our shame, painted in
a blue tux—as beige that scripture, to fall between, courting a young nun; this
holy gist, to twist through trauma, a baby in Italy; as died those scars,
peering at fortunes, and one last heist; as ever it was, gnawing barbwire,
reading political poetry, to know that death—where love was green, as passion
was purple, where sol burned as brilliant redness; to ask of curses, one last
breath, toe-to-toe with Satan. It could that flight, arranged by psychs, to
pull that curse—as riding forever, that deep this magic, to tug until it
glistens. I speak for riddle, that woman’s contour, to see Theresa—as plush as
holy, forsaken to woes—screaming at purgatory; this lavish wound, as never to
heal, as pure as gasoline; to thirst this love, to enter and die—returning with
vengeance. I loved a vex, as to shed a kingdom, while to gain legacy—or more
this curse, while driven insane, gnawing at bars. It could be gentle, a son as
king, a daughter as legend—or more to marriage, flushed in riches, our hearse a
shelf of friends; to see his face, beaming that office, as arms crossed
prepared to war; for thoughts are raw, as to drop his head, to pass through
violence; that fatal jinn, extracted by angels, sitting at a chariot—to feel
for souls, this crooked composure, to love her by nature.
