There’s
a screaming canal; our rivers turquoise red; our thoughts abstract tombs—as
channeled her life, so gray at midnight, while sanctioned abed insanity—that
burgundy faucet, at arts our catastrophe, this limit by ropes two inches
further;—that terrible triumph, that inner world, a fist full of pills—as days
begin, while excusing levities, this moon cherished at twilight: if but that
cadence, our cryptic silence, as marching with chaos. I found us nudging, this
city controlled—that rich manipulation; as never she could, at deaths that
sylvan, our woods sheltered by emptiness—as filled with prey, this chain of
commands, our portraits breathing our dreams; that outer picture, our keystone
adventures, something predicated upon sadness; to shift her life, as sung by
villains, tugging where oceans drain: that mid-ridge chimney; our lack as
dirges; this force a kindred feeling; to advise his life, to tug her soul, as
they crawl afore sunrises. Let it subside—this wealth of turbulence, as more to
forget—where nights are shut, as days are livid, this inner candescence; as
claimed our sanity, those seconds of closure, reaching beyond a carnal
instinct; to grip eternity, our immortal wings, flaring through other worlds;
this deep silence, as abandoned her mind—that dungeon as deep feng shui; to
courage his life, that abstract course, at borderlines with nonsense; to surface
after solace, by virtue our disillusion, to forget those noonday tides—or to
perish a new illusion, something with promise, as more something carnal; to
have those welts, as screaming innocence, while at excesses to sin: this feral
sanction our transgressions; as more our fantastic thoughts: if but to drift,
carving a cadenza, deflowering naivety—while more for sameness, this internal
chase, at throws those arms—as mother’s lullabies, or father’s baritone, where
seconds consumed a sudden decision—as living forever, that immortal fly, as
rich in substance—to stand convicted, soaring with Isaac Hayes—screaming, Walk on By; if but that feeling, killing
as they died, while resurrected as butterflies;—this cryptic dance, alive at samsara, a pistol through a portal
demanding insights: that cherished domain; that innocent death; that time to
plead this course—for love is gentle, our arms hugging—to life our children; as
mother sings, afloat an orchestra, this (bel canto) of prose; while sad this
ache, as born with justice, our sky-meadows aloft our skylights. It comes by glance; to have done such worth;
while needing this voyage: that purple rainbow; that mythic chorus, pondering,
“he laughs”—as mystic souls, soaring for rising, destined to outwit melancholy:
if but that promise, cemented in cerebrals, this tunnel sliding before
justice—as prideful aches, sentenced to eternity, while at love a thousand gems.
