We flay
sadness, conditioned by chess, as long it lives: that burgundy gin; that tipsy
grin; that promise to outwit passions: those tepid footprints; those priestly
fingerprints; that tainted history—as wanting love, to forget self, while
tugged by habits: as saboteurs, or vagrant ties, accustomed to addictions. I’d
love to know us, feeding poodles, playing with toddlers; this cry by souls, to
see a greater person, our mirrors screaming dejections: that dirge of hearts;
those lamentations; while Joel is on repeat: that cryptic science, as fused a
dream, peering at mysteries: those evolved psychs; those tendencies torn; our
tampering by insights: our mothers jealous, as fighting wills, or saying something shocking. It drills by guts, to have
lost friends, while gaining such aloofness: that country smoke; that prurient
woman; our sails through traffic—while signing deaths, as left to tragedy,
fairing as perfect to delusions: those running pixels; that charming psych; our
psychologies a bit slanted; to embark by fantasy, tugging a dear soul, thrust
into mad science: our hearted drums; those cultic cymbals; our minds to
Alcatraz: if but a dream, I’ll capture insanity, at flux a series of emotions:
that turquoise queen, those beige eyes, that wrath by chance to study: if but
to suffer, this maddening increase, our kites to Notre-Dame. I’ve lost a soul,
to capture seclusion, associated with few—as sung our Tao, that unmoved
frequency, as everywhere our faces: that deep professor, at transcendental
studies, while teaching logic; that course of dreams, as bottled our souls, our
A’s to B’s—if this than that’s. It’s crooked a turn, to find for love, adrift a
scar by Paris—or Cajun dreams, peering at sculptures, this woman too perfect to
sing; by us a treasure, as forced a pencil, at sketches those dreamy tulips. (I
grabbed a book, entitled Purgatory,
as read a few lines—to bathe his senses, while courting an image, to remember
that fist of madness: those mesto charms;
our immortal arms; that alarm steady at silence). It’s fettled a death, as
aggressive a life, as needing humans to believe in: those rabid feelings, as
crazed a jaded wing, by ribbons living but folklore: that insane beauty, as
given but moments, at reach a noose we dread. I felt uneasy; I felt guilty; I
stuck around—as mother grieved, those terrible insights, while necks sought
something unstudied. It comes this way, as fast as gray hounds, where one is
smart to retreat; but this is life, as furious souls, abandoned to deep impressions:
that field of plums, those bottom drawer letters, that family forcing opinions;
while watched a light, as spectators mourn, filled with emphatic pity. I’ll
chase a star, to erupt a feeling, slowing by breath those steps through graves:
that burning mask; that muddy road; that sudden volt—as realizing presence,
this kef of souls, while abandoned to this inner cathedral; or more our
zeitgeist, this current of morals, too steep to reach and to shallow to
articulate; as sunk a dream, this casual person, at wonders those silent
charms; where persons die, as proving convictions, while others laugh; as
taught that song, this want for purities, that palm to our hearts; while moving
rapidly, depicted in sheer space, adrift by novas those sable eyes. We live
effective, at tears a terse discussion, while sharing our eternities: that
liquid harp; our fugues as mortals; our duets a miracle: if but to scream,
asking our islands, as to ward-off contagions: that strumming moon; those
poetic lines; that diamond in parts; as loved a dream, our fettled
existential(s), so swift a locket our love; as carving flint, our names in
pudding, our hearts to lutes; that mental opus, as singing forever, our terrors
in G-Minor. I’ll reappear, as more a ghost, embedded our timbre as dreams: that
horrifying dance, as chanced our souls, locked without keys: if but to oceans,
as blurry as time, unclear of this thing called death.
