It
could be life, this cage as scarred—our bars celebrating; as tested dearly, as
losing dearly, as winning dearly; this portal this crime, as pieces of spirit,
scattered across Malibu; that inner dream, those powdery lines—that elephant to
a contour; as knowing screams, wretched by bruises, while laughing through
crises. We fever life, received as foreign, as aliens our souls; to love with
vengeance, our cyan cymbals, chasing forever such stardom: this chilly wave, as
wading through misery, those invisible contracts; to capture cadence, invested
in souls, a rift by shine—our inner swans: that perfect grace; that perfect
pitch; that coin flipping as prophecy; to chant by Christ, as flooded that
dream, racing through desert cities: this calm danger, suspicious of life,
warring psychotic features: where days are treachery, as psychs are vicious,
this need that constant yank. But let us
breathe;—this kingdom of sadness, proud of such features—to have died a man, or
even a child, through legends, this peril; to journey mother, this tenfold addict,
broken for bleeding steel—that court to die, as puffing blue cities, while
charged at life another red city—for cringing breath, this kef of freedom,
steep a sewer as salient;—a majestic cry, a welkin sore—our canyon sprouting
fevers. We frantic years, conditioned to travesties, fishing as falling—this
life as serious!; where brains are plural, fraught with multiple worlds, to
unfold tyranny; as never he lived, by eyes to havens—refusing gray matter; as
still to love, those romantic scars, leering at turquoise skies; where time is shifting,
at which, are furies, to chance this fire: that terrific force; that marvelous
curse; that voice by angst through deaths; where tides are burgundy, this
flipping of whales, this sea as sickness to squirrels. We flurry to live, to
ride this gurney, pulled by tears this person’s screams; as fated towards
justice, this coming of times, as receiving our inner worth—where souls grackle,
this crackle of births, at speeds those deeds of men; to vacate hearts, as torn
through terrors, where pains devastate future prayers. We tarry to die, this
rabid soul, at course to ruin a nation; as treasures fly, to net a brain, where
love is tested; but flights are cherished, this stint of tragedies, as psychs
strategize; to fever this light, a box of dreams, a dungeon breaking skies—to
rain his life, at death to love, as feral as meerkats.
(Oh
for segue, those cherry eyes, those beige feelings—to know that heart, a felt
reverse, to courage a nightmare; that facial presence, that tweak of sky-eyes,
that deep concentration; to have won life, this bird at wings, our flipping to
flopping through airwaves).
