By
sweetest nectar, those burgundy eyes such fevered addictions: sitting with
grandma, a man’s mother, petting a petit kitten; those captive waves, our runs
through forests, to realize that creeping death; while shadowed treacheries,
offsetting by kindness, a woman a stranger your twin; to find us at rapture,
our mothers brewing coffee, or smoking afore a young infant; those aching
bellies, that baby kicking, as wreaking havoc that torture—as such sweetness,
those hormonal agonies, sectioned by lives as prophecies: that tragic sky; our
dungeons by cloudberries; that hell as raked such sweet nectar: our aunties’
haven, a plant to meadows, a deer to deserts—while nights are cultured,
affected such tyranny, our gates pleading contagions: to gird his waist, a fist
full of sackcloth, our grandmother perished: that rich affection; those
turquoise curtains; that diamond swooping through dungeons—as kissing softly,
that confirmation, while fevered by sensory—that ache he sighed, those brazen
walls, that ill-gotten lucre; as dancing by travesties, scrambling by pits,
this destiny by our sickest rivers! We churn to family, that mafia sequence,
unshod by glory: that silken cloth; that treacherous tempo; that agent peering
at pictures—where hell was cadence, to know by name, a swan is swimming; that
infatuation, bragging about mother, shivering by dormant storms: that torrent
fight, that force to hit hearts, while at once a tinge to panic—as cultured
havoc, or tragic mathematics, our tyranny adjusted by algorithms; to chance
that life, that fasting woman, our arms radiating lightning: that deep koan;
that mystical horizon; our mother’s return—as so long to graves, our clocks
ticking, our introjects as treacherous; to bend a psych—just one last fever, knocking
for wrenching those doors: that shifting fire, our grandma’s son, as more a
convention—to sing such irony, our arcs dripping skies, as earth fevers or
earth’s extensions, pleading for falling, that lake of coyotes—to nigh a soul,
that rush of wolves, to protect a sol—where minds treasure, that trying thisness, while abandoned to nowness or that shadow, breaking into
plurals, our deepest sickness; to perish cymbals, our spirits threshed, our
fathers by legends. I met mother, this stranger’s eyes, but a thimble to
unsighted catastrophes: that melancholia, peering at complexions, as terrified
as before: those tragic thoughts; that deep addiction; that wretched beauty—to
enter such countenance, that random love, as returned because he stuck around.
We die this way, surfing by Sufis, our gestures born of fires: if though his
mind, this chime of winds such tropic chaos: our buried motives, as wanting for
sexy, this treasure as desired by vultures—as given that lot, so proud a
treasure, if but to melancholy, that fool to rebuild us. I heard mother, those
welkin foibles our characters by gales a travesty: peering at pictures; seeping
into consciousness, alive by forces screaming for destruction: that
inclination; a playful coffin; our whispers to sanity.
