I’m
found, Art—this zero intolerance, as so enchanting; to sing glory, at tears,
that mind, abolished through cons; this land-field, as teasing souls, wrapping
a church tie. I saw a serpent, those luscious hips, those perfected thighs. I
retreated afar, this angry feeling, as souls intimate with wars; to carve a
bullet, embedded in hearts, staring at sins; this deep expense, shifting as
centipedes, as deadly as locusts; as mortals feast, adrift from self—souls
cultured by demons; to admire lusts, as to shadow pains, those fallen
years. I’m seeing moods, this woodblock
heart, sculpted in crimes—to feel this life, this silver vixen, adored as
Taylor Swift; wherewith, are grains, this planet in Venus, this culture upon
Neptune. I’m close those loses, a vault
of hard-knocks, stressing and screaming through passions: that flying dream;
that welkin neck; that face sawing into mirrors; this living sentence, this
chamber of drums, those pages on commonsense—while rearranged, surfing at seas,
agreed to as a secret; this magic at souls, to repent as drastic—this tragic
life; that theologian, a snail to pews, captive—a sense of death inside; this
mystic flame, while needing more—one asearch that Faceless Scream. I caught acrylics, to glitter our palms, this
frontal devastation; as alive that night, too much his soul, to vomit his guts;
where beauty called, to strangle his throat, this tower of ambitions; as long
it lives, this butterfly-pain, to praise one more sin; whereto, our souls,
scattered at silence, pleading forgiveness; that inner armoire, that credenza
of letters, that tuffet of diamonds—to see existence, this tunnel of minds,
pierced at a left ear; in-so-much, that knowledge, grieving through tenets,
tugged by humanness; as scarred after sights, those pleasures to gain, as
bereft with self. Its cold that season,
this autumn tear, tracing veins an auburn leaf—as cultured brownness, or
midnight darkness, picking locks at Purgatory; wherefore, these arts, a song to
crows, as scared those fires about ghosts; while life is joys, or more those
segments—our lanterns raging; to feel that life, that interior flotation,
engaged by rites that fever; whereat, that vixen, to have us but once, floored
by attics.
