I
watch morals, this space of webs, this dell of agonies; while sheer enchanted,
our static motions, at denial such beauty: a bit terrified, as reaching angst,
to shift with thunder that minx; as falling conditions, those turquoise dreams,
afflicted by convictions; this place we live, as self-assassinators, by
clearance to destroy affections: this melancholia, that inner psychology, a bit
envious of mavericks; as watching youth, this mighty climb, this living of
agonies; as bounded in joys, this flow with winds, our valleys pursuing
longevities; as more to music, perusing a queen, as if vetted this assertion; but
arms to skies, as skies to brains, while slightly at war: that inner man, that
fallen man, that new invention; as seeing distress, in mere a gesture, while
affected for years: that burgundy gin; those short cloves; this psych a bit too
convincing; as not as deaths, or sheer deception, but this wonder concerning
this living; where tires turn, as pedals thrust, while cranks shatter: that
space in metaphysics, as pure a giant, this wanting of more: as pure
psychology, our perfect endeavors, while professors live such private affairs:
that milking of visions, that throttle of vibes, that perfect lecture; as
finding our way, while graphed in currents, that need to sit afar; insomuch, as
sinning, this welt within, while Adonis lives his journey. I plague mother,
this solitary woman, while searching for mother; this false ingestion, as to
sights unseen, while playing Atari. It comes to mind, this fair distraction,
where love is but a myth; but still to fantasies, while rejecting premises, at
tears this constant evaluation; whereto, are cringes, as too, affections, while
at wars to decipher intentions: this long analysis, this waving predicament,
this courage to divest actualities; where fools trot, as finding glory, that
something to admiring gusto; as torn to prose, this philosophical, at states,
becoming pragmatic; as challenged to live, where living is deaths, as churned
by something that lives within; insofar, as terrors, about infinity, while
chasing becomes more important: that tragic capture, as two to flames, aiming
for exhaustion; or more to perfection, that myriad of hats, while a man becomes
a lunatic. We chime this venture, fully electric, at chasms this fair
dimension; whereas, flowers wilt, at cadence with life, where humans perfect
those satin bars; this barn of thought, this storehouse of treasures, our
mixture by arts those forces; as abating in time, left with turmoil, or
becoming this field of wild-stock. I feel confined, as loving adventure, while
pausing at a petal; this pensive gaze, as a wistful retreat, while realizing it
was never a proposition. Oh for confusion, as long we live, interrogating
internal shifts: that brilliant mind; those sooty eyelashes; our astrological
charts; where souls flourish, as born to life, while sifting through grains:
that love as given, as captured through stresses, while at tears to explain it
to love-ones.
