We
gnaw rind, electric with grandma, broiling a steak: (I reappear, a young man,
feeling humility); that inner child, streaming purgatory, amazed that fatal
wish; as more an outcast, this winning venture—so appealing to loners. We’re
living opera, so cold our winters, at pace with idiosyncrasies—that blue magic,
that leaping pill, our chills by lines our cultures; to admire arts, so drawn
from self, agaze’d that red tide. I’m living London, fretted by France, imbued
by furies—as lived that life, impassioned by Alessia—suspicious of love; that
gray secret, fevered as vigil, this unbelief—while aloof as shy, afield an
orchard, embellished by dreams: that juicy loquat; that sighted cutworm; this
vision with limbs caressing sadness: (I disappear, as merely a lad, falling by
vanity): those beige eyes; those wrinkled fingers; such as memory-lane—to court
a gesture, such coffee intentions, pillaged by that deep chuckle—as living
dreams, engulfed by violence, such endearing sophistication. I’m more a human,
pictured through kaleidoscopes, that perfect image; as hiding tats, forsaking
earrings, a bit resistant to jewelry; that welkin stance, but dearly a mess,
adrift a star by kingdoms: that feral child, imbued by ethnicity, undergoing
reconstruction—while more to legends, this deconstruction, as imagined through
swanic eyes; that captive gaze, ruffled by cages, laughing by tears at
something frantic—as seasoned with culture, ablaze’d with passions, seated in
southern admiration. I heard Rihanna, that fire to souls, to wander that space:
inspirited science; this psych his soul; as bleeding this professor; to crave
but life, that insidious mountain, plagued by mental manifestations: that outer
voice, effaced by palmerworms—studied as mere specimens; (but light to rules,
this detached adventure, where sciences are mutual; as more to brains, verses
experience, where unsaid scientists exude familiarities); indeed, a conundrum,
as spacing through arts, our melon but a second of comforts; whereat, are
scars, those eclectic responses, as one far evolved: that peeking psyche; that
riveting feeling; those ripples to ponds that descending dove—as chased his
life, chiseled at Tei Shi, around a corner from ourselves—that soaring phoenix,
those brilliant faces, that measure but treasured our daughter’s sun; to win
this life, accused of tyranny, falling by glance to miseries. I sighted Banks,
this skeleton soul, a bit so manic to skulls—as dripping our brains, a scar but
a legacy, at shovels to mire our names: if but his life, that creative gist, a
mist a lemon through veins; to culture genius, those souls to grieving, at
years that phoenix perfection; as etching gods, performed as ghosts, our stages
offending Shakespeare; whereto, is venom, that outer camouflage—that
pantomime—as skating archeries, while flailing cupid, for love is congested:
that music we sung, so young an orgasm, while at chase that capricious queen:
if thought his arts, so old to science, so religious a tone; while torn to
stars, that vexing stance, at bars that ontic kiss: (I reappear, to listen so
closely, our genetics haunted: where mirrors are falling; vestibules are
closing; our images remain hidden in hospitals; that fatal cry, as sensing
life, at wars to reveal innocence): as laughing that way; that nervous tremble;
to gardens with monsters!
