It’s
a violent room, our décor as vicious, a body mirror of ghosts; that haunted
dream, that shifting house, those burgundy bullets; as sifted guts, that welkin
tear, that feeling arising; to know our hearts, that gothic music, our Grecian
inquiries: if but for terrors, this horrible stream, this myth by communion; to
touch her eyes, surprised by love, so gentle our torments: that mystic concrete;
those talkative mimes; that urge at souls a kite; to feel so strange, at war a
group of naysayers, where never for wrong their thoughts. It becomes pain, that
need to flee, if but that art of sanity; as music churns, while souls flame,
those deserts by tongues our miseries. I felt afflatus, this swan by tricycles,
pitching marbles: that soft approach; that bowl of cornflakes; that trove of
trinkets; as awakened to violence, those pipes by stoves, our mothers with
fly-eyes; to die so gravely, that misbehavior, as a wall gave wings; to hate
his life, as beige as sand-planks, as broken as pillars: this woman grieving,
as always grieving, as always angry; to find with purpose, that steep
resistance, while pacing through earthquakes—this mind as golden, seeking for
freedoms, afraid of reflections; (but speak of beauties—that turquoise ship,
that hour of satiation, our bodies becoming mirrors): if but to perish, in arms
aflame, our undulations as violent; that intimate anger, our stolen souls, our
needs that unconditional obedience: if guiding by storms, while wrecked by
lights, to want for them our sameness; this vicious ploy, an unbearable yoke, (or
more a false claim); where souls cherish, this art of wisdom, to peer at a
child becoming a woman: those green olives, that purple moon, that reddish
brown sun—as falling forever, while rising eternal, this garth filled with
psychs; to have those visions, as seated in angers, as sifting oblivion—that
cruel odor, that line of misprints, that slant bestowed by treason; for normal
dies, while abnormal lives, to have met a billion people—where theirs was
shattered, while ours intact, this legend supported by courts. It becomes a
mission, a city of perfect persons, as our mirrors would never lie! This chase
of doves, too wise to see, too bold to retreat—while palming evidence, those
mystique islands, but captive for hunches; that cold excursion, that circuit of
intimacy, as our puzzles become so jagged—that inner lance, as tearing
intestines, to fall apart by devotion; but more to swans, to un-coddle
simplicity, to flee that process of thoughts; for life is more sensations,
driven by inner worlds, a series of soulprints: that cryptic sound, that steep
cadenza, those luminous angels—whereto, are visions, ablaze activities, to find
this tinge of unrest: that vehicle of storms; that mental tsunami; our hearts
as boomerangs. I know a song, as shared by trillions, our mirrors seldom for
truths; as painful lives, agaze by misreads, formed through this measured
beast: if life to love, according to reality, we use our imaginations: that
thunder of volts, to imagine love, while faced with realities: this chase of
powers, to reckon our positions, at woes our surging conditions; this force of
life, as associated crookedness, where one remains indebted: that deep wisdom,
to adore this chase, at love an image; indeed, to flee, as Paul’s return,
journeying this New York Jerusalem; or losing Los Angeles, while pitted in
Chicago, avoiding those planets of self-rightness—as speaking that way, associated
with truths, while vetted by mirrors—this contradiction, for theirs is suspect,
while ours are accurate: this circular loop, as needing by rubrics, this
activity by scales: that inner mandolin, that emotional web, where something
remains true; this science of winning, as living wrongness, playing this game
of chess; where souls wail, that longing music, at tears to sing.
