Its cryptic
shudders, as cultic thunders, at deaths with violence—such scars to shiver,
atypical atmospheres, affixed by memories azure skies: our keytar passions, our
salmon with rice, our glary eyes: those cyan legs, that maroon hat, our
laughter aspark our 1920’s. It’s dark by
sunlight, shimmering with nonsense, attempting to sail a thought; those inner
pictures, as indigo trinkets, suffering alienation—as posed a dream, while
screaming but virtues, associated by treacheries: that petit feeling, to arise
a presence, our operas on appeal; this chiseled poem, at struggles with
fires—but a freezer with tears. We never fly, by mere a fancy, afloat by storms
that treasured island: infused with silence; accused as bandits; wrestling
injustice—as demanded his mind, those magenta winds, flicking at spiders: those
vocal orchids, living by organs, at pains such music our churches: aloud by
graces, as stirred by conundrums, reaching but a feather: those khaki eyes, as
mystical cries, to have known such distance. I’d break a dam, to fury a river,
aloof by palms our reservoirs: that flumpet breathing; that timbre screaming; our
necks covered by crayons—that cold beauty, as assumed our cries, our daughters
painting frantically: if sentenced by flights, to have never a soul, adjusted
as writing falling into traumas: that violet tulip; that bugle’s charm; our
be-still trees; to arise a savage, too humble by curses, to serenade by fifes—that
drowning misery, as wanting forever, but
too clever to believe; for tears are songs, craving distance, while nearness
destroys our charms: that sky blue ocean; our Hawaiian seams; our knitted disagreements—as
whispers form, our silent cries, too pleased for treason. I’m buried a soul, as
jazzy as Baton Rouge, headed for Bourbon Street: those loud cries; that curious
carousel; that odor wafting through homes; as died innocence, while fretting romance,
this song we sing by science; to hear acoustics, as unaccompanied, that
vivacious thrill; where mothers are women, as fathers are men, a bit saturated
with nightlife chills. We soon return, aloft a dream, peering at realities:
that tragic art; that miserable symphony; our stages exhausted: as floored to
silence; members at pains; our terrible secrets; to know for humans, as opposed
to chivalry, where existence comes in segments. We must appear, that meeting of
minds, so aloof at chimes from a distance; to know dejection, as pure music, by
terrors our second glances.
