That
glorious love, as shadowed in compromise, where hearts beat submission; that
flagrant aroma, that luscious frame, those tears pouring out ecstasy; this
intimate flower, so wild that temper, so bold our territories! I fly this
journey, pampered by love—those self-conscious comforts: I die this journey, a
man with wings, singing a sullen song; where thoughts are guilty, this inner
slavery, while content with securities; or discontent, for ships sale seas,
this fury sutured to angst. We could but live, this heroin’s friend, where love
is vetted in memories; this anxious ride, those fumbling poets, this need to
ingest life; as terrific love, too shaded by lusts—this affair with fantasies;
whereby, this dungeon, those floret whims, this soul flexed with curiosities:
to waltz gently, this fettled man, at tears that physical beauty; where men
perish, inching through madness, at once, this sky-glass of witnesses. We
exhaust youth, reaching for matrimony, afflicted by behaviors; as seeking
security, those wars of minds, charmed by recognition; to yearn eternal, a bit fragmented, but never so
joyous that love: as needing highs, when threaded to lows—this chase by nature
a passing frenzy: if love is gentle, those petals to soaps, that infamous
ecstasy! I’m so imperfect, as near inadequate—soaring through thoughts as
effaced—this rapid rapture, this inner rupture, as treading such sinful
boundaries; whereto, that rope of guilt, those times of luxuries, that flight
as writers those carnivals; that perfect clown, inebriated deeply, painted as
happiness; this furious woman, this museum of personas, at love that vocal
breakfast; where life is structured, to remember such beauty, staring at
glamour’s addictions; that acrylic art, with such as glitter, this tug by nature
our yens; to hold by hearts, this warm sensation, as to cherish intimacy; this
longing trust, as open to honesties, to find self laughing with a friend: this
mystical soul—so irritable a soul, as only I to comfort this soul.
