Such
as damage, unclear that vigil, attracted to danger—that furious love, agreed
insanity, that walk through marsh; as filthy money, a pail of tears, gripping
as pulling as frying. We saw it lust, begging for falling, attracted beyond
scales; to love so savage, this constant approval, longing where fires destroy.
We met as angels, while so disturbed, lying as to witness approval—this famous
role-play—forbidden justice;—while dear that cry, aging through violence, our
souls as captured; to die a pulse, beating through measures, as serious our
affections; that more to mercy, as entered his life, to appear so awkward—as
California, this tale of woes, or stardom by fame that rusted. It could be
magic, if souls should perish, as buried in faith—that crucial measure, our
colors explosive, this beauty as gore as electric—to feel this vest, straps
tugging flesh, our pull through bars that justice—or more that pillow,
containing screams, as to whisper our dreams—as less as kosher, our hassles in
jars, a fly as buzzing through screens. Oh for coldness: Oh for warmness: Oh
for this mixture; to cry our purpose, holding unjustly—this deep confliction.
It told us tarot, this flashing of faces, adrift for dripping suspicions—that
seated calm, that anxious wiggle, those constant yawns—to fly by mirrors,
pleading for peace, at pace to chase tomorrow; if more those lies, our souls to
God, as seldom he leaked honesties. We knitted fever; so alive as breath;
speckled in traumas our art—to flip through time, a vase to a window, as
hundreds were spent. It would be life, too young to love, as too old for
wisdom: this chase through life, as never so pure, leaking into honesties; to
ruin composure, our bleeding eyes, as casual deaths—afloat this garden, that
Japanese rose, that Chinese tulip—that second she died, at course his love,
pulling as yanking as to ravish heaven—or more that season, undressed as lost,
pleading fires.
