I’m
running hallways, pierced through rooms, at wars this dementia; our women
crying, alas, screaming, at filth this thought to love. I’m seeing visions, at
peace that delusion, traipsing through hospitals. I’m seeing demons, cleaving
to angels—this woman with five brains; as castling madness, reaching for mercy,
an arm’s touch from kef; this inner chaos, to see it in tensions, cringing this
beautiful travesty; as warring with death, to tug that wisdom, leering at
Kerry’s eyes; this faraway kite, as floating nearby, while through him, for
him, and by him; this curse of things, this blessing of knowledge, this birth
as affronting aunties. I saw a temple, those grieving statues—this picturesque
nightmare; this glory by pains, affected as nonchalant, to paint with brushes
our bleeding: this bruised lung, wailing for freedom, at a loss to lose such
tension: this pregnant dungeon, as flipping pages, raging as a dragon that
fire; this inner griffin, that two-headed lemur—this furry by vines those
brains; as falling afar, nails to flesh, at best, this image of redemption: to
see as crooked, but what for straightness, as revved this iron to enter flame;
this stripping panic, those blue pills, at illness running through cemeteries:
this gorgeous calamity; this precious misery;—Safiya at wars to kill me: this
fabulous treachery; this marvelous crucible; our brains at Brimhall’s
doorsteps; to find confusion, as years would perish, to meet this intricate
simplicity: this dying legend, as bent towards famines, at wars to extinguish
this furry: that beautiful song; those diverse tongues; this loss by angst a
triumph; to skip in stillness, while seated at trails, this walking by minds to
flurry through meadows. We had to perish, this pack of singleness, roaming
through empty skies; as flourishing sky-fires, at tears with sky-souls, abroad
as stagnant fleeing rooms; this place of solace, this great depletion, at once,
that era of solitary madness. I was want to live, as losing this forest, while
trees collapsed at every turn; as churned a straight line, born to reminisce,
at kisses this pair of coals. I loved insanity, as cringing insanity, this
feeling born of illness; to see this psych, at seated in seduction, to ask of
minds this chase. We danced a furnace, as abandoned to moments, as time
convicted this bed; that art by cages, that cage by freedoms, this needs to bar
this affliction. Oh, for ties that mercy, cursed as fleeing, while to enter
another’s brain; this game of dreams, or silent screams, as feeling
undercurrents; this inner professor, to know that name, at shames to admit
attraction; this person as self, to plead as genuine, this Spirit deceiving
spirits. I loved a phantom, our beds as strangers, to see us their lost in
lust; to know so many, as treated with disdain, to love this texture; where
tides are cold, this warmth by thoughts, to aflame a body of rivers; while
falling close, as pulled afar, this woman thumping through kingdoms; to greet a
priest, or nurture a nun, this grief at wails to extinguish this curse; as more
this blessing, while seared asunder, charging into Revelation: this bright
dimness; this raging calmness; that shallow deepness. I loved a song, while
dead to songs, as to love this morbid song—as chasing freeways, those cars as
jammed, while life sat upon an impasse; this inner vestibule, at tears this
mystic, to finally find communion; as near for rebirth, as challenged to
resume—this space in time as memories; to see for humans, this needs to run,
this woman gripping catastrophes; as more a journey, this gurney of lies, as
never to give self a chance—that needs to love, running through rooms, severed
from heart to dungeon; this mix of singleness, as chased by thoughts, this
running of stillness—to capture such eyes, as bleeding melancholy, to advance
towards resurrection; this inner calligraphy, stipple in DNA, that face a
countenance truly blessed; to know for ghosts, those inner trembles, as bodies
shiver in mid-motion; to pause at love, as never to love, as holding love—this
furious love, as committed ‘till death—our breaths a mural to rooms.
