I
remember tomorrow, to slither so wisely, at tears, filled with shame. I
remember tomorrow, shadowed in essence, reaching for broken smiles; to see as
unbroken, this concentrated beauty, to possess something unreachable; as
inverted dearly, those hours to mirrors, this sickness flushed by joys: those
gusset features, as feral as midnights, our valleys so festive with pains. I
remember science, drenched by ghettoes, that fever chasing—those musical
symbols, as unspoken cadence, such richness disguising our flesh. (I’m feeling more, attempting to divest—this
vessel as unfeeling: that callous shift, while accused of coldness, wrestling
by something dishonest—as feeling shyness, while aggressive warmly, but
screaming by countenance—this wealth of trauma, our speckled decades, that
woman, that voice, our mothers; as seething a bit, at wails electricity,
fleeing into freedoms: that box we lived; that sin we craved; that churn as
wretched theology). I’ll remember tomorrow
sinking
into passions
removed
from cinemas: that inner clash, as to love your heart, while too distant to
rescue; as years pass, singing this marriage—(so aloof falling to memories)—that
cactus desert, that wand for water, our failure to praise. It becomes hell, as glorified havens, flushed
by transgressions: those bold eyes; that hazel churn; that moonlit fire; as one
so dangerous—to hell with voices, an overseer dying—as keeping patience, that
tinkered furnace—running through a dellic dungeon. I remember sin, that mental
ottoman, sitting too low to reach; to feel for tentacles, abased by passions,
carrying a hectic illusion—that feature of fires, those features desired, that
hour at hell’s wires. I’ll remember
tomorrow,
beckoned
to gates,
as
opted psychiatry: that inner specialty; driven through Savannas; at tea time
with a genius: that lambent dream, as casual sin, this blockage we dine—while
more to fevers, to want this life, a bit confused about waiting: that impulse-mind;
that dragon warfare; our enthused children as oblivious; to burden hearts, to
slither with grace, to impugn our mirrors; as souls live
through
manipulated ladders
our
fathers writhe in purgatory; this crop of sadness, our harvest to wolves, as
deceived through sheer ecstasy: that sift of innocence, (so sexy but vicious),
while courting our addicts—this prized dimension, our hearts to begin, abused
but an inch to life—as becoming monsters, peering at naivety, a bit torn by
disgust—to witness deception, at means unknowingly, where a gentle admonishment
falls to deaf ears; but hell as sweetness, that scythe to resistance, as
mourning that very attraction. I remember tomorrow
inflated
by mystics
at wars to dismiss
empathy; this casual feature, as moving souls, by fringe this terrible leap; to
glow with happiness, embedded by delusion, as not to remove such sweetness:
that dramatic dream; that horrible calculation; that tale of nectar as
abandoned…as broken our hearts, this wet horizon, one whet for curious
affections—as dying forever, to grapple an introject, this woman by memory a
running face. I’ll remember tomorrow, this sophic queen, as such a terrific
tragedy: that zenic sting; that sagic air; our souls allergic to Aum! (I’ll remember yesterday, that inner ransom,
pinched by realizations…as fueled a vision, (enchanted by sorrow), as one
electric as fires—that storm of minds, as made so powerful, enduring by means
of literature—while caressed through slithering, this wealth of honesty, as not
to overdue purities—that miracle woman, so abused but living, a touch too
beautiful to grin: that place of abandonments, that pirate’s door, but a daisy
planted in mire).
