Find
us, Love; this devil his dreams; accustomed to madness; this myth of lives, to
live that myth, as kissed a vision: explosive nights; morbid inhibitions; that
sip beyond destiny. I caught a dove, to lose a dove, as courted his nightmare;
to laugh at brilliance, this sick ass fool, tugging for brilliance: that
fevered woman, as sipping teas, googling giraffes;—that dying lullaby, as
seated addictions, too high for dreams. It became love, this sick ass venture,
acquired that feeling; to mourn hearts, as loving arcs, this place a bit too
shallow; for life is human, this deep desire, as needing desires—to course
forever, as merely a thought, while hell engulfs emotions; that casual
intensity, so elusive a mind, seated at debated realities: that furious fuse,
as losing sobriety—those tears singing through, Grammar. I feel a friend, our
deep disjunction, while forsook to deserts; to wrestle God, where trees are leaking,
this language of territories; or more to fires, those verbs this essence, as
never he lived; to court a dove, as dying doves, enlove by art this dream—as so
confused, abused as life, his mother something exclusive! Oh for daughters, to
vent as beliefs, this mischief as Indian souls; that grand retreat, echoed as
silence, forbidden from dreaming; this fabulous casket, at hells for graves,
pegged through that symbol of Jesus; as came his mind, this vicious soul, at
beauty his experiences; that contradiction, peering at perils, flushed through
parallels. I died a mystic, this attic rebirth, afraid of love that violence;
as burning leaves, this beast of burden, reading through Farrakhan—by Christian
rules, to examine woes, a bit concerned about blackness—as meaning this life, a
symbol to a bird, forbidden from loving mother: that casual mistake; that piano
woman; that bastard as a genius; where souls flourish, as dead that casket,
alive but this woman; to call for mother, this harsh lieutenant, favored by
ferrets. I’d love to give, but this feeling of stars; that ache that
resurrection—as seen in mirrors, that feeling as thumps, this fool chasing
sobriety; as formed in wombs, our mothers guzzling—to life this genetic
scar—that custom we live, that habit we die, those brown concrete eyes. It took
for dying, that grand retrieval, as evil that gesture as awakening—this feral
demon, to see those flickers, as deep that part of destruction. To speak it
plainly—I adore a song—too many our heinous years—as wringing forever, wrung
asunder, flipping for crawling God’s effusion.
