Our
zenic cries, steeped in intuition, afflux consciousness—as torn rebels, or
rabic lovers, trailing inner raids; that Tibetan mask, that Egyptian den, our
Cajun dyes; while more to cages, that furious flying, adrift such darkness; as
kissed a palm, at years to Cesar, at souls to fires. I’m running courage,
aborted but here, those lives to chaos; while father binges, mother dies, our
aunties by far a shoulder turned; that bleeding vestibule; that dejected
priest; those deacons a sight robotic: our pagan altitude; our mental
longitude; this glacier seeping into dreams; where persons fall, a gleeful rug,
those heels piercing kidneys; as cried his soul, wailing by private rooms,
running that endless hallway: those tortured ghosts, that apparition, that
fiery ceiling. I’m catching waves, a bit incarnated—our eyes to visions; those
foreign faces, leering his inner soul—those sudden chills—as facial
confliction, that tension of psychs, as expressed an extra brain—where
daughters ponder, while muses drift, apart as puzzles those aphotic valleys.
I’ll shift a turn, at churning explosions, to wonder of her life: that soft agony;
or beauty blooming; or both our sullen songs; to capture a glimpse, at sudden
an entrance, as hell be damned we loved. It turns an island, that gorgeous
insanity, about as stubborn as Jonah; where pastors die, aloof that golden
plan, a bit concerned with mercy: that flaming business; that exempt legacy;
that need as crying an overseer; as tiles are grieving, our mental siblings,
our curse as perpetuated. We’ve skipped
a subject, agaze’d by something unsaid, while at love this furious soul: those
attic steps; that falling ladder; our aches to a pleasure controlled; or more a
fire, as said unbearable, while we run as ruined as Roadrunner: that searing
wit, those glacier passions, feeling fetid by emotions: that terrible sin, as
filled with luxury, to return to self abased: as cried our souls; at wars our
inclinations; so troubled by pleasures: as torn asunder, this craving of pains,
while satiated by glamour—this inner demon, such vocal desire, picking by
threads our plastic couches; where love would perish, insistent a soul, this
ache as driven our mental armoires. I could to love, at souls to love—so
selfish our catastrophe; or more a gift, flickering as flaming, by thirst an
inner motion; as alive to wellness, a bit unwell, trekking meadows by caves.
Is
it life or death, our Australian breathes, at honors so low—as but a dream,
infused by classics, at unawares an orchestra: that chiseled feeling; that deep
restraint; that atypical personality; as never for whims, where strangers
depart, but ever for love that mystical art; where legends form, as needing
eternity, that kef by life a vision. I’m torn a diamond, as shorn a sheep,
attempting that graduation: that earnest paradise, at African towers, by far a
group of shamans; that rich psychology, those neurotransmitters, that time to
sobriety; as seeing daughters, in shrouds of gold, infusing this universe; as
apt to sing, effusing liturgies, by chorus a legion of angels; to cry our moon,
as parted a nightmare, by shores to fall gripping muddy waters: that feral sun,
afire in Sienna, our classics leaping through dialogues; that casual furnace,
as kilns to brains, where psychs structure that crying theses: to deaths with
sorrows, as immersed fully, at hearts this type of tranquility: as sought to
love, as more to commune, by thoughts a bit restricted.
