We
imply mimicry, to sing from vines, at once, a thriving person: those chateau
eyes; that silken blouse; those fitted denims—along his life, dyeing mane,
those cocaine adventures; to dream by jaguars, that runaway cheetah, those
beige Nikes; to brave a locket, our grandmother’s tears, at vexes that grandfather
clock: that sullen pendulum; that anxious scribbling; that perfect image—as
sought our dreams, while so afar, a trinket atop a lamp-stand: our burgundy
notepads; our gnawing of pencils; those indelible tooth-prints. I clawed a
vision; to sky a fountain; imagined as a fool; as craving fire, to seek
eternity, a bit unqualified: our leather belts; our spiked jackets; our
attitudes in Vogue; that tender reed,
as born a giant that pile of twigs: to curse by winds; while nonchalant; by
virtue to cast a spell; that concentration, aloft a dream, at desires a bit
forbidden: our Cajun stew; our gumbo and rice; those black eyed peas: our years
as children; that brief excursion; so young seated with adults. I cried death,
imbued by lyrics, as fueled a pyre; that possessed venture; that liquid
countenance; this fancy escaping our hearts; to travel afar, at thoughts to
psychs, at woes to realities: if died a legacy, to arise a fool, at love this
ancient vice: that mahogany gin; that flying mirror; those ivory Reeboks—as
flitting a kite, while milking a dream, that faraway escape…those months to
Italy, that walk through Germany, that British Flag—as saw his life, abreast by
illusion, pining that staircase vision: at purple tulips, or pink begonias,
those jasper snails—as more a scream, delivered to demons, asearch damnation—to
speak it gently, an unlikely muse, where a poet desires truths; as lived a
failure, courting rainbows, while projecting articles: those Danish cookies;
that Irish music; those days—religious wars; to beckon a face, while afar a
meadow, at purpose to mingle that brook. I’ve lived an empire, perfected in
tattoos, at grief this inner merry-go-round: that flawless dream; those sweaty
toes; those gothic nails; as clawing telepathy, or scraping membranes, so far
adjusted every mora: while dying she lives; at curses those leather curtains;
that vase chunked at mirrors; to see for screams, that seductive distance,
amused by Forest Gump: that childish attraction; those inabilities; as to kiss
a secret blend. I ponder this way, at mere a gaze, ablaze’d by prose: those
shifting streams, as perfected with science, as deliberate by assistance; our
arts to sins; that Barbadian tact; our sinister holiness: those wines with
grapes; that pineapple daiquiri; that symbolic watermelon—to seek a muse, as
distant as time, while afar that infant’s hope—as pulling faith, threaded in
doubts, to become a fool with images: that inner theft, to anger a colony, at
research that broom in Africa. We know for
words, while secluded dearly, at sacrifice to admit admiration; but more to
arts, as pleased to compose, afforded our fire.
