I
die of us, as forward affliction, our rolling eyes; to know this death, as
giving life, our illusion with texture; to perish by arts, fevered at hearts, a
dart by waves our pagan pains. It couldn’t live, as mother’s sin, bleeding our
victuals—to nibble by touch, a subtle ouch, as cried our dance. I chisel light,
that mallet to ink, afraid of Nietzsche—as warring God, that broken pencil,
that etch of hospitals—where love studied, this endless verb, participating by
deaths—as falling apart, to lose our arms, so sick to sickness: that fabled
psych; our thunder’s fire; that volcano at tears our winds: screaming for
crying; living for dying; but an ant that corner her blouse; to love amore, that stumble to justice, as forced
eternal that last cadenza—as losing
words, to curve a vowel, repeating each one—that curse we live, so sweet as
smart, to stipple by origins—that fatal dance, to share a legacy, as died so
many to fevers—as thus a terror, to hold such art, as losing sanity: that
purple tear, those iron gates, by faith a queen crunching a secret. I laugh to
die that touch of lust scribbled upon delusions—where heaven was life, as
tugged a death, to hell with words!—as cried our sights, to mourn our nights,
seated so close to venomous rooms. I saw an image, as cursed a temple, so holy
to lights—as born affections, cringing his voice, while acting as if: that terrible journey, our hells to wings, our arms
refurbished; as met a star, so far removed, to study by balconies: that infant
feeling, as to redeem love, so courted as one sinning: if gentle our days, than
cruel our clouds, while stumbling from bars to rooms. I had a heart, to lose a
soul, as reigned in sable eyes; this screaming texture, at measures a fool,
while dripping into membranes: that petit atom; that rabid arc; to know this
place as standing such a distance. If couldness
lived, would wouldness die, as
born to trust forever by silence—that gripping kiss, as smelling ambrosia,
reading a thousand poems: those tempered voices; that aching vein; those pills
to darkness; to admonish mirrors, chasing shadows, becoming with every stroke—that brush to live, our canvas to fly, our particles coming apart before
God. I loved a queen, to sing as wrung, this lung to cherubims. It could be
gentle, as everso real, our mornings debating Kierkegaard—or rather to crafts,
our palms with ghosts, staring at ceramic symbols—or more to Malcolm, those
final days, at Mecca’s mercy—or more Cabbala, that mystic fuse, threaded by
redness our violence: if kissed his life, to finally let go, seducing by
measures his loses.
