Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Rinsed at Seven, but Still a Tinge Filthy

We take to loses, at sins our nature, slithering through justice; that cultic web, beyond cultic pools, as rinsed but muddy—this grin of sorrows, that perfect pitch—if not for deaths, our waning growths, seated a furnace of cries—as dies our wisdom, to suffer simplicity, this ark we strive against—while seeking lightning, this rich ecstasy, to return to simplicity. I’ve laughed our nightmare; I’ve cringed our daymares; but nothing becomes as misery: that wretched harpoon; bleeding intestines; our guts wrenched asunder; but called this life, a mallet a wound, as sealed with leaking cements—that custom of habits, to wail this lot, while at tears to hate our futures: if but a soul, hankered by sinews, at fears to shed such scales. I’ve died a smidgen, losing that charming smile, at pressures to hold conversations: that tinge of sinning; that shy disappointment; those ways speaking beneath bars—as courage his life, peering at daughters, to imagine this shifty coldness: that welkin hell; as if rage is human; while seeping into rivers—if but to bathe, to wash trespasses, if but to rejuvenate—that inner juvenile, those offcolored rooms, as sang phantoms to souls—that inner movie, stationed at replays, to have known this passion. Oh for clashing arcs, to slither through fairness—beneath gavels seeking eternity—to muster that grin, while laughing at features, this mirror so cruel to clarities. We sung death, accustomed to dying, at grand expectations—to fix this life, as incumbent to newness, our souls reaping taxes—that sentence grieving, those arrows bleeding, that venom of times—as burned through justice, as mourning justice, while taking issue with this fantastic judge. I laugh for sanity; I appear in silence; I’ve arranged a solid paragraph—if but for venting, this wealth of years, as to have subjugated brains—that repetition, to demonize love, while slithering towards happiness—that fallen cry, as whispered his days, while effected through affectations—that screaming moon, that burgundy sun, those jasmine stars: if but to retreat, as prepared to advance, while never to forget—this ink of passions, where life is effected, while to pause becomes cruelness; so more to shadows, a fist full of spikes, this slithering sensation—as fueled with powers, this will but waning, while sighted that distant finishing line; to garner passions, as effused with strengths, to dance as a grand piano; indeed, that breath, that jaunt to warm waters, while trying to forget life.     

Strumming a Harp

By language we speak to audibility and coherence. To compose to feel understood, in spite of language applied. A person spends years misunde...