I’m
screaming, filled with stamina, this stigmata charm; as stapled my life,
peering at death, looking this vicious woman; to cry by lights, this stiffness
our hearts, as plural as midnights. I mind this life, at crooked churns, as
turned to madness; this oral art, this writer’s breath—this left by days; to
see for winning, the greatest to touch it, this inner delusion. It could be
mental, this furry of holiness, as caught by seas—that voice; these furious
gestures, enclosed in psychs, to judge what—that
moment; or more his life, at edges that grayness, where lesser souls have
perished; this fatal disdain, to call it taboo—this lack of knowledge. I came
through hell, as left those remnants, leering at ghosts; that halve to body,
afloat this room—the greatest that
mind! It should be gentle, this lack of courage, to grab, pull, and die; that
violent climax, that terrible lust, that thing we must exude; if but to die,
where others faint, by which, our nights would churn. I’m torn apart, a
fragment to winds, those glens at valleys—where love was good, this inner
sadness, prohibiting love; that angry sorrow, that inner fire, as thrust by
poets; to kill his soul, her words so cold, those flames curing insanity; to
grease a wound, this flagrant ointment, as vast as seas, to enter a womb,
jumping through thoughts, to pass out. I loved a death, as secret it came, to
share a flower. It had to perish, this moon as bleeding—our sun as running;
where novels grieve, while arches bend, as to fettle this screaming frenzy. We love
for courses, to see as dying, that beauty as clear infection; to hope by
chance, this stream of vengeance, this needs for therapy. I badly hate, filled
by clearance, as to badly love—this contradiction, this maddening contrast—our
cause and effects; this deep affection, racing where gods perish, this lust
those halls of Alcatraz. I heard a voice, this terrible woman, as confused as
abuse; to lust this thing, as needing this friction, where mind-to-arms bruise
deeply. I fled to flee, flitting through fitness, as dead as one claiming this
life. It cried by lights, this gorgeous addiction, as bleeding ecstasy; to see
for courage, this inner consumption, as limbs fell to hell; that curious
terror, as thrusting madly, while to calm a snail; this math by violence, as
needing this war, for life has distorted a young man: this crooked reach; this
daily fight; that outer attitude; to call us friends, as needing to live, while
loving others: this child my heart; this
child his kid; our months this love. It could be gentle, this hellish plight,
where furies erupt; but this in death, as more to lies, this dope invading our
loins; to purchase a tent, somewhere our minds, to pretend for normalcy. I’m
quick to live, as quick to die, this inner parallel; to pollinate love, while
dearly sick, pointing to infusions; this world of mystics, this inner tap
in—through something immortal, this human condition!
