I
remember madness, as kissed that fever, a puppet of a grand trickster—a remote
island, broken by shards, our dislocated sanities—to find pressure, that dying woman,
as holding his wrists—where love spoke, this deep injustice, our poison a well.
We spewed colors, as feral as motives, choking by flame this florid disaster—as
sketching faces, that smile as shattered, as showing deep dysfunction: I loved
mother, some sort of beast, lusting for mother; as there was mother, that
solemn gait, that backwards glance—wanting to kill us, through texture this
richness, while love throughout cities—our graves, speaking purgatory, our
hearts a spark adjusted. I loved mother, mating mother, a child as a legacy—to
cry mother, as seeing mother, this city of mothers; as saintly distrust, cuffed
by mother, that inner professor—as time cried, this want for madness, our
portrait screaming through kaleidoscopes—that fatal chase, to sketch a face, to
redeem a daughter—wherewith, this infamous color, as disparaged greatly,
realizing this struggle—where hell died, as mother lives, this woman so tan our
cries—to die three times, spinning through Godhead, falling for crawling that
pit; this festoon of misery, this equality as lying, as splayed egalitarians. I
had to speak, albeit, this pain, as seeing mother—that mirror’s heartache, that
deep addiction, that feral disease—that rasp to tongues, as rift in spirits, to
pardon self that ghost. We knitted promise, aloft illusion, to spill into
reality; this dying woman, as living faith, as proud to have died: that
beautiful child; that father’s wit; that father’s liquor; or left to mother,
that specter of woes, as dying his soul. (Ours is cultic, this flannel fire,
fevered at second glance; as seeping outward, that sudden outburst, this
demented inheritance; to mend by virtue, associated psychs, scribbling
infinity; to ache for madness, if but for order, a bit disenchanted; while
broken in shards, a relic to a daughter, afire as firebrand). We simmer in
sadness, kissed in treasures, erotic concerning our passing(s): this velvet
violet blue sky; this violent vicious turquoise; as more a song—singing in
harmonies, shattered at frequencies, studying this foreign mother; to have
opened seas, or lusted that menu, captured through arts fraught delusional; to
outsoar illusions, pardoned as sick—this captain screaming, “Mother.” (It’s
more at breakage, this winsome scar, this melodic misery; to have wrought letters,
touching that space, afraid to love you; this feral woman, this humble
confliction, this feature arousing ideals; as less for cultures, as more for
freedoms, while courted by a red sea; to blast a trumpet, or wail a saxophone,
while glory sits as a refugee—or tears a warrior, this tinge of self, at wars
that love; to gain entrance, this trace of mischief, as to lose this ark). I’m
upstream, staring at orange eyes, as smelted that fever my life; wherewith,
this passion, as stitching addictions, to crawl to mother: this gravid woman;
this anxious zeal; that frantic nectar; to hold his palm, at lengths that palm,
while to run with excitement. (It couldn’t be true; a man lusting for mother; a
man dying through mother—as born this sin, as feral trespass, while to siphon a
blue moon).
