I’m
pitching boulders, so many planks, an intricate concerto—as music dies, our
souls to cauldrons, that beautiful music—abandoned afar, as one deranged, this
sudden seat of morals; or more a charlatan, or rather a demigod, or some sort
of sagic priest; indeed, by woes, as curious to womb, this tragic event so
plural; as moons grieve, our sun(s) to sadness, our daughters infused. I bled a
teacher, looking so blindly, afforded a grave error: that reputation, as
shattered a dream, a man infected; this mental haunt, at tortures a siren, at
pleasures a friend; to remember love, this sacred vest, as churning through
drum-kits. I thought by roses, pricked by passions, prodded by ghosts; to
witness faces, at bloom in Agnes, at goth with Hannah—that melancholia, as
reaching membranes, while sparked an island: that serotonin, afloat his mind,
his lips that taste—as moving mountains, some type of breed, accused of dying;
as crazed his heart, that leap by junctures, that woman so silent: as vocal
pantomimes; or silent chirping; at brains those locks couldn’t be picked: that
travesty screaming; that classic bleeding; those violins igniting pandemonium:
if sought his life, than to death our souls, as so entwined our rooms are
melting: that floorboard fire; that mirror aspark; those falling feelings; as
more to dreams, those sculpted features, our mane at mourning(s). (I confess
it, by human harmonicas, this human at tortures: if sought our pleasures, rapt
in neatness, but so infused; for minds are bodies, engulfed in music, our treasures
grieving blissfulness; as seeing angels, this course of times, our classrooms
breaking from dungeons; as lived his art, immortalized in scriptures, too many
psalms to grieve: that terrible affection; that heinous attraction; this woman
but a kindred soul: as old as skies; as young as fledglings; at remorse this
feeling by nature; as saw our lives, spackled upon canvases—as for wretchedness
such beauty; that dark glow, framed in Lorde, those violent motions—at urns but
tears, fleeing from portraits, that palm a spider his wall—as seeing visions,
that visceral feeling, while kissed a demon at journeys: that far cry, as
amused our cohorts, so infatuated with being normal—that golden spoon, at
sordid secrets, as troubled as Bugs Bunny. I can’t but love, at treasures to
perish, while at deserts to mourn: that tragic castle, to ollie a fortress,
while reaching one soul: those shimmering shields, while gripping delicate
crafts, as so infused a dream; where sages sing, while carriages await, where
cherubs enter silence: that horrid beginning, as appearing in souls, to sale by
control such carnage. I must appear, to this self as grieving, a man to his
mirrors as two conversed: if be it a scream, as vocal as midnights, by
structure a curse; where mother yields, those soft fingers, as caressing a
son’s heartbeats).
There’s
psychs and pills and pills and psychs and joys for pains and pains for joys,
afforded rain, afforded verses, as long to live a studied person. I see it moving, that inner crane, accursed a
cross, that flickering flame; to spell a second, or harness a scar, this soul
so brave at wars with love: that refined sentence; that sphinxly heart-race;
while encased insistent feelings. It
could be minds, at shivers to explode, while fetching that perfect composition;
as deep for trenches, alive this ache, where too much is merely enough; to
evolve as spirits, that locomotive, reaching to escape that sentence; where
souls live, as infused by opera, while tribal that art of souls; by far a
killing, this person to guillotines, afflux creative pressures; as more to
pleasure, that wrenching feeling, at trauma this myriad of cryptics; to witness
self, in mere an instance, as fusions to capture that mirror: those bold cries;
that infant portrait; our fathers multiplying baptisms.
