While
terrible attraction, those captive thighs, that seductive glance—as losing
theology, those gray birds, for choosing we die—this flurry of fancies, tempted
by flagrance—as chanced his life, to enter by flesh, while kitsch becomes
concrete. I laughed as nervous, peering at God’s fortune, unaware at times those
notes: by vanishing words; as a portal to sin; afraid of forfeiting
opportunities: that vest your life; that painting we lived; that mane speaking
about meerkats. It churns with lime, as sipping through boundaries, alive as
merely tiptoeing: that magnet grin; that shift of movements; that ear where
lovers nibble; indeed, a bit crazy, envious of love, standing so far to love:
this mental portrait, as features appear, wrapped in dying ecstasy.
I
return by fate, reluctant to fawn, while fawning dearly; that abstract kitsch,
founded in reality: this gorgeous feather, as wasted our years, filled with
images; to love so coldly, but a second to hearts—infused dearly: that crafty
cuteness; that tendency to lie; that backwards dance; to enter that space, confused
by life, crawling for sitting as standing upright; that fabulous lust, racing
through fears, so addicted to yoga: that crying weather, seated at devotion,
tugging our hips.
I’ve
lied to feel, sectioned by abyss, driving through Cypress—as one aloof, pausing
for Thai, amused by city lights: those words to perish; that art to live; ours
as strictly training wheels—while deep at terrors, tugging through fluids, at
tears to have gained worlds.
It’s
not so tragic, where adults breathe, as answers float by canoes. It becomes a
thrill, as never to lose, this indebted friend: that casual lie, as returned by
truths, to excuse said lie: that mystic rite, by séance eyes, as flooded
dearly. I laugh to think it—those torrent dimples, that concern with silence,
that need for airtime: our sky-cliff dreams; our sky-felt dance; those terrors
we lived; as two for rising, to hewn our gifts, a diary as a birthday charm.
