Never
this love, while dejected this love, at music so shy this love: that torrent
torture; that cryptic feeling; something according to brains. I’d fly an echo,
or stitch a cloud, to nurture said love: if all would perish, our dearest incision,
fumbling through motions; as terror-softness, that epic tear, as remembered a
mere gesture; to catch us by tragedy, a few broken verbs, at love such essence
so green: that captive impression, allergic to love, pining, at furry to
capture love. I watched it bloom, lost this maze of activities, seated,
gripping his guts: that white noise; that mystic grin; those hallways at cause as
reaching—this mischief as cried, or tragic softness, this kiss by aches a
mirage—to die intently, as living a smile, effused through volt-beats—this
cultic drum, as unraveled his life, calling for crawling voiceprints; that
telic soulquake, that terrible hope-fusion, as eyes sit so desolate. I heard delusion, to channel psychoses, as
never that feeling; to converse by waves, at tears to touch flesh, at tests
this inner artificer: if music as softness, than tragic tone-quakes, or ours
this sky-soul—while suffering burns, churning by symphony, this bawling unto a
glorious vision; as torn to magic, this black richness, or essence he couldn’t
speak; as treading thin currents, this arc as lost, that rhythm as infectious;
where Love vomits, filled with chi, dangling by petals. I envision pollen, this
methodical sneeze, while pining for Kleenex: that torrent symbol, as more
imagination, while haunted by jasmine stars: this place we live; as contagious
dearly; our minds as excavated—this charm we stole, that distance we stood, our
waves abandoned; as something we thought, this living vine, our reed as spiky:
while more is love, this poetic distracted, this structure as reaching—that
Celtic folktale, that inner manifesto, this heart-drum fleeing from love: if
but a second, while grieving terrors, abashed by love.
I
return to love, this glorious affection, while rooted upon clouds: that furious
key-storm, while hectic our night-gaze, flipping for tossing while losing rest;
that mental opera, that steep cadenza, our credenzas fleshed by music—that fire
we live, accustomed to heart-quakes, peering at soulprints: that sky-fever,
affected by ether, at tears it had to perish: this voice of mystics; this art
of tragedies; ours enmeshed in beauties—as reaching jasper, fettled by love,
awakened by love.
