I
imagine one vision, terrified by day owls, this nature unsung; as passing
portals, filled that pressure, alive as pure dreams; this jasper cadence, that
jasper maintenance, those eyes as jasper patience. I imagine one body,
surrounded in mirrors, as seductive as mirrors: that leitmotiv; that inner
cadenza; that playful travesty; to have his heart, spinning as fractured, while
gluing pieces to particles: that radiant womb; our casual escapades; that totem
unfounded—as sounded emotions, or unsounded tragedies, awaken while sleeping;
that music our lives, trebled by symbols, that picturesque nightmare. I imagine
one heart, as beating its venom, too aloof to kill us: that deep passion, afoul
our brains, this organic hymn: alive my life; a fist full of dragonflies; or a
hummingbird to bellies.
I’m
sick this pain, at turns a robot—responding with honesty: that nib bleeding;
our song unsung; our coffins as running through deserts.
We
live horrified, enjoying cadence, at joys to touch: that satin pillow; those velvet
curtains; that cedarchest: if but our eyes, agaze by infinity, running but
crawling to ponds: that phantasmagoria, while kicking in dreams, this angst to
awaken while seaming: as threaded to life, this black oak trestle, this rasp to
something invisible: those Cajun thighs; those mandolin legs; that duet seated
as souls: to ravish as vultures; to die as kinsmen; at love atop this majesty:
if only that thought, as deep that sacrifice, while to part with eternity: but
oh this passion, this crucial ache, while hearts beat aloof that touch.
We’re
crying deaths, this Asian idea, racing from sundown: if but a memory, this
ache-less ache, as pure contradiction: that magnet queen, those dreaming songs,
as to push deaths unsung: that jasmine rose; that tussock to palms; that method
of madness infesting our souls; to cry majestic, fiddling with undergrowth, as
candent as wildfires: as oh we died, locked in dreams, at love that moment
crossing portals; to love at death, as dearly inflated, this unsung resurrection.
I
return to life, this mural of addictions, at face this fresco condition: that
mirror to arts; that woman to God; our panting as deers: that brook of lights;
that captured agony; those beige gardenias: if but our lives, painted by
Rembrandt, infused by Mozart: as singing in baritones, that deep resonance,
this woman upchucking her guts—to swamps atop sparks, fleeing into flights,
above nigh our clouded Jesus; as roaming eternity, peering at Adam, yearning
for fire’s bosom .
Oh
sweet forgiveness, to run as cheetahs, forming as dying asleep: that teardrop
fantasy; those violet eyes; as proud that she loves: if but that feeling,
exhausted in prose, this tragic poetry: if but this cadence, fiddling with
grout, attempting to seal this faucet; but more is patience, at love those
arts, this flux of flutes—as fleeing motions, grounded in analyses, as
returning to emotions: this sick cycle, informed to retreat, by cadence that
unsung song—to hurt in parts, alive at souls, panting for falling to prayers:
that clump of clouds, as discarded dearly, while gripping ether: that tragic
song, as finding immortality, seated at our Doorman.
