It
gets that way, that feeling deadly, that deep attraction; to know her name, to
perish that life, as musing a contour; to stream Jesus, as blessing her soul, to
velvet conversation. It became his mind, stressed by shores, disgraced by
islands; to mingle Greece, with pure Belize, pedal to concrete. I’m alive a
notch, peering golden eyes, those tides his mirrors; as abused that life,
floored to rugs, to stare that mood-swing—addicted to graves, to transform
wisdom, a star by grandeur; this cold effect, that inner Bathsheba, too far my
leap—as gone his reach, as gone those tears, this fabulous vixen; to gaze a
city, looking for beauty, this manic as a menace. I’m hiding souls, this
crowded room, floating through media screens—while screaming in silence, this
vexing name, ashamed of this passion; where dogs bark, as cats meow, that rare
to see us both—as partying fools, afloat through traffic, to force his hand. I
wanted more, to side a different woman, as one that made love; where another
sparked, to see her soul, a table of pills. I lost appeal, to win appeal, this
woman through virtues; that deep secret, to know a version, while secure those
facts—this evil mystery, to see her face, beaming intoxicants. It’s more a
dream, to know that death, to yearn that womanly; as seen her soul, a line to
brains, as wild as Canaanites—forever a scream, as sore as love, an ice-cube
that space. I market more, this intense fire, fifty through a gutter-lane—as
peering at love, laughter resounding mirrors, smoke seeping into fabric; this
life as lived, to sober his mind, at ninety to swerve a freeway: this bold
hostage, as acclaimed himself, pinning to carpet those dreams; to die a savage,
as born a priest—this incarnation; while hearts bury, this furious fountain,
aloof but more to love. I saw her, of a different league, as more I tried; to
catch her in traffic, blaring Jackson, a coquettish laugh. I called a voice,
tipsy at liquor, as bold as magicians—to cry her heart, to comment beauty, to
live it in a soul-beat. Oh for days, as crazed as men, surfing by chance those
legacies: our purest of beauties, to laugh our efforts, to give in through
jest. (It gets that way!)
