But Love Is So Treacherous

We become important, at measures by levels, while one is clutching to atmosphere…that cordial goodbye, as if jails were sewn, this sentence by life: that gorgeous woman, at tears secluded, or more that unbelievable balance…to ski uphill, at meadows by ghosts, to want that fatal touch: that mourning by seasons, as filled with texture, by one to derive essence by mere thoughts; for this is love, to want for never embrace, at which, becomes serious confliction: that feral woman, so composed a dream, screaming for falling while standing at steps…to love by porticos, that essence reaching, while so withdrawn it conquers a king: our mystic savanna; our desert, “I likes,” as one conquered by maintaining freedoms. It comes to passions, as never heard her name, while one has plural visions: our weeping brooks, by gelid warmness, that absent perform—but a scent afar, that inner actor, while, nevertheless, that chaste misfit: if but to lie, this feeling sprouting wings, as becoming his every fantasy: that booklet of prose; such as dizzy salt; while to whisper, “I’m an artist”—embedded in joys, as climbing through filters, to attract compassion for but a myth: that terrible sin, as gin to brains, so bashful that monster of woes. I died to see it, this lavish beauty, while too withdrawn to cater to love: that fabulous cry, as steeped in music, our war becoming saintly presence; where love would perish, as replaced with contempt, for one ignored a signal: those shifty cries, abreast a vehicle, our breathless disasters. We’re countless souls, by endless desires, to see her for the first time. It has effects, this affective rain, a napkin soaking a bit too much—while becoming flimsy, as tearing at junctures, to realize, “It would love to have her”; that chapel bell; those cryptic cells; a fleet of words flooding our quarters; where dungeons cry, to have that moment, where such is easily rechanneled; so more to dancing, to maintain love, while exhausted by repetition: that scholar’s journal; her rabid eyes; that tropic by cadence this shifty chance—where rebels battle, as infused with armor, at cries to have reached our portal. It could be music, as musing that peculiar moment, while rumors would fever our agenda: that sacral love; as religious love; or more those secular animals; to know for pressure, as enchanted a sculpture, where love held for life that dying moment. I’m want to knead us, if but to bake us, flitting through christic epiphanies: that cagey beauty; those trenchant passions; our memories flooding into flames…where majesty stood, that first by entrance, to realize, Hell Hath No Fury!  (I’m courting visions, this spectacular image, scudding by practice to remain in silence. It comes by pressure, this lure of magnets, by whimsy to select a furious muse: that mystic fountain, to cascade a dream, as such to remain inactive; so more to whimsy, by chance an actress, where one is removed from playwrights: that delphic song; that inner millpond; our women watching as thrown through wonders; to wander pianos, as soft that rush, our faucets screaming by welkin glance…as should be gentle, that fiesta of feelings, our oak trees leaking in tongues; as pure for love, that romantic skit, at terrors by Shakespeare).  

Kindness or Loneliness

Oh for this war, our fretted glory, to clash by desires—or rise by terror, this fixated man, our influx drowning kindness; to move by souls, our affairs to mercies, as cursed our last tryst…that vineyard sinning, our kleptomania—that faraway tenderness—as kissed a dread, by far his leather, where love broke insanity. I’m craving fairness, this world of grandparents, while at tales that Ghost; to sing eternal, this liquor bruise, reading by candlelight: our jaded daughters, at wars with addictions, by far dreaming through prayer-like activities—to solace self, at treasures to escape, while wrapped in kinships…

            those words grieving, that stale odor, those resin pipes—as running terms, this agenda of brokenness, that need for kindness: if but to perish, this movie on repeat, our days inducing anger in myriad souls; to grip by necks, this flux of persons, pulling for ripping his very guts….

            I’ve died forever, too clever to feel, while to harness a rampage: that evil light, as beauty would cleave, to touch by pelvis this immortal sin: if but to live, a man to deaths, at horrors our Cinemax: as watching aches, or becoming cartoons, floating between knowledge and rain stupidity…

            to grieve aborted, at treasures to sense life, angered by it wasn’t his: that steep redemption, as carried that life, while amused to have destroyed unwanted love. It comes to hells, while greeted by bells, this siren ringing by glossy eyes; to shift returns, those returns to shift, where only self is aware of deception; to ride that cloak, until terror rings that mirror destroying its image….

I heard silence, to embrace fixation, while to argue for jest that devastation.

            We mourn our moon, as graphed in dead-prints, afflux this cadence: our terrifying war; our blessings as ghosts; our music by graves; that fatal paradox, a box in hats, a rabbit as  sinner—to mock kindness, as far evolved, asearch for one that dogs its pray…

our swans as livid, where to fathom is crooked, so less to sympathizing and more to confronting; to ask that story, to force for clarity, while parents acquiesce to vagueness.    

I see a heart, this arc invented, that spray of sprinkles: our daughters writhing, our mothers at pretend, such grandiose flames; where tales are told, as holding religion, our palms exploding with false impressions; to mingle his life, peering at shadowy eyes, a man to tithes for freedoms: a thousand psalms; at four different quadrants; appearing to self as radical…to ask psychology, that probing humanity, as graced to fall through answers: this beige intention, as vague as intentions, as wanting this velvet by disgrace: that pudding quicksand, while reaching for vines, this Tarzan adventure…at needs to love you, as seeing his-self, that myriad of persons…while called crazy, this amazing deployment, a bit evolved for textures; that lonely wolf; that brilliant jaguar; that tree speaking through illusions: our walls crawling; our vestibules barking; our grabbing becoming lethal; to kiss by petals, this fragile invention, while at silence to determine longevity. It becomes life, this disliking, while thrust into behaviors; to love by shells, while disgruntle by innards, as one to utter total disgust. I see a vision, while loving tension, at once, to become involved: that heart-Porsche; that mental Lamborghini; our Chevys rushing through cemeteries—if but to expand, this life of angels, our cherubs mourning as clowns—that frigid smile, or those static outfits, our worlds as caricatures; to sense with panic, this deep rejection, while yearning for prestige: those gray endeavors, to wean injustice, while hardened by fevers.  

Indebted To Seers

So, we exclaim needs, for mere our strangers, this mystic enterprise—where souls perish, as to derive a storm, flavored by new acquaintances. I loved a feeling, as forgetting about humans, while moved through parallels: that mystic fever, as acclaimed by experience, while meeting souls stronger than self: that shadow of love; that golden cross; our trinkets pointing at participation: if but to live, associated chaos, this person by myriads of characters; to die forever, as lived our minds, this immortal fortress. I know a spirit, as confused by spirits, while to wonder of pure intentions: such by altruism, or more this need, while filtered through doctrines—to explain feelings, as speaking of permanence, while nudged to believe as askew: our mystic waves, by furious acclaim, revved for days while fasting; to catch our eyes, rolling through pyramids, at that second a blind force. (I must address you, this wonderful song, while sensing new strengths; this place of dungeons, this man of intuitions, while gravid a storm of flames; to come to gentleness, aflame by daughters, while attempting to fathom mothers. I’m lost to seas, flipping with flipper, where whales nigh for guidance; but more to clarity, this woman a myth, while seen by few; or more that psych, as never a word, and carrying such dreaded truths; to see your face, as personas linger, that shift of eyes as thought through experience; to denote a mystic, or even a mystery, while seated at yogi empires. I’m caught in rapture, seated in silence, at needs to heal—that inner echo, infused by knowledge, as accessioned to drift through violence; that inner chant, those mystic bars, this thing by arriving closely—that measure of cadence, to sense more than shoulders, while flinging around that face of essence: our steep inclinations, as fumbling fatherhood, while reported as one a bit to innocence; but more to you, this well of enchantments, too evolved to be tugged afar: that cryptic thump; that chi to lives, that something coming with effort: this grace by works; our anchors uprooted; this floating sensation; where minds ponder, this lot of echoes, sipping for nurtured by pure indecision; as less to dissention, and more to evaluation, while remembering this greatness in souls). I saw an entity, as positioned to retreat, while coaxed into accepting dangerous souls; that place we dwell, while seeking comforts, our music a bit conceited; where mothers grind, as fathers live, this essence of perfecting homes; in much our lives, as dearly esoteric, at points losing sight of divinity. I’m feeling feelings, as, too, emotions, flavored by this precedent called reason; as maybe too much, or never enough, transported through persons. (She searches for errors, while fortifying loopholes, afraid that one may become a tyrant: that cold emperor; that cultist’s empire; that voice echoing through millennia: if but to climb, our essence to droves, while becoming that very overseer; where tides are lethal, as songs are crucial, that moment in time to offset infinity. We carry this secret, as souls diseased, where authors are want to designate this force: this keen agreement, while shadowed in facts, that woman’s memoirs outlining destinies: if but to reach, where music in grim, our souls permeated with silence: this force of woes, as searching by voice, that other woman retreating. It comes with time, this furious chase, to arrive in segments; where daughters witness, this war of souls, at flux, by becoming a tear indebted.        

By Necessities

Our imperative woes, as exigent wings, fueled by flaming desires…while so detached, at compassion by powers, to outlive our swan-song: our mystical cries, as warm by shivering clutch, wherefore, a method uneasy: that cold profession, as heated by fevers, pulling for grinding our emotions; to favor life, as lived a soul, too powerful for fainted hearts. Such cautious waves, to furnace through communion, at tares to utter our teething souls—as lost to fortune, or torn to misery, at purpose our immortal sentence…to chase by capture, as so much to fire, but leery that voice probing our futures: that wealth of transmitters; those sheer metamorphoses; that particular element befuddling our caves—our minds as plural, each assigned a brain, by cryptic design such reach: our pensive songbird; our undone fates; our psychological billows: this line he hawks, for hell stored a season, where he miscalculated kismet: that frantic fairytale; those recent eyes; such fulgent hindsight—as mother lives, but dying softly, as harsh as falling impacts: that infant song, as tossing and rolling, our limpid screams…to sort by music, that question by wavelength, while devoured by furnace-tension: our faucet dreams; our kettle rings; our whistling becoming boisterous…to know by sureness, this strength of rareness, while ever by fiery blueprints: that yogic ark; that flurry of souls; our sundry dispositions…to watch us drift, seated at stratagems, a series of connected goals: that touch of dying, enflamed by sadness, at capture this furry of electricity…as voicing concerns, to have lost that person, by contact our withheld personas. (We wince when frightened, dance when ecstatic, and sit when meditated: our curses blessed; while defining too much; at heart to latch upon something inscrutable: (as I wonder by nature, that genius brain, as to what extent?): those harsh winnings, as losing naivety, and such a prize by cultures: that lure by daylight; that mystic come nightfall; such intentions by midday…our sodden cries; our mental marrow; our fire to winds).      

Deciduous Legacies

I feel that person, your inner persona, so close disturbed by distance; such melic trauma, or born again wits, while savage a grin by touch. I feel that person, as esoteric, or this inner eclipse: those seated eyes, examining a perch of truths, affected by mere absence: this welkin dream, to have our wants, while feeling contentions: if but to live, accustomed to dying, this scudding sensation; to live by fires, or graced through abuses, our minds releasing linchpins. I feel that person, a bit disgruntle, as, nevertheless, by accordance to her waves. I’ll break silence, if but to confess: We live by nature with each person we meet…that distinct shift, those yogi truths, our mystics stumbling through activities—to find such cadence, alarmed by reception, our hearts seated in stillness—that mythic motion, as internal screams, to flood by thumps that silent music. I feel a person, asking forgiveness, while sectioned by disdain; that cautious middle-ground, surrounded by like-minds, too aggressive to sense that inner whisper—as drowned our ears, this pleated insanity, our thoughts by causes our distress; but hell to reason, when it feels so ecstatic, our boundaries permeating contempt: our treacherous justice; “I must be rights”; where I suffer this rhythmic infection: to want for love, while harboring affections, too aloof to feel colorful eyes: this wretched man, as filled with paradox, taking seriously this thing of sheep(s) and goats; as pure classification, this us against them, this form of alienation. I feel that person, as we wander astray, kneeling while peeling plums; as flesh to wither, our arcs to wilt, our wedges growing powerfully. I feel that person, those thoughts by chi, that wellic harpoon; to die forever, at treasures a star, where love becomes this foreign excursion: to live by graces, as blessed by fortune, this tendency to point wands; or more that spoon, as fed to queens, where poverty becomes aversion. I’m want to regroup, as so far removed, by this arc surging gently: that furious temper; to shadow that gorgeous temple; while groups are stranded at faux pas: those infinite chimes, singing your essence, at tears to release our fires: our sundry hearts, by measures to music, this thesis as needing confirmations: that premise growling; our trombone as resounding; our lines as blurring: this width of time, to capture pains, while adrift by feelings. I feel that person, as so skeptic an art, as so close to destroying magic: this cryptic sensation, to want as falling, while rising a product of another’s dream; as dying to live, while flowers bloom, our seasons as deciduous nightmares. I feel that person, so lit to heaven, as killing us softly.    

Monday Evening/Tuesday Morning

I know our music, this soundless gravity, our piccolos and violins—that inner film, our mental cinemas, our waving odors; as coming to justice, where hearts are static, such pressure by tongue-abuse. I know our fire, as thumping as thunder, or seated a fathom our souls; that chiseled residence, as acacia swans, or oaken sap—that music, seeping into exospheres, returning this vehicle of brains; to know art, this piano by psalms, concerned with visitation: that deep misprint; that small mandala; our aches to bones as flaming furiously. I know our arcs, such torn conviction, to have by heights such meditation: where music is home-plate, our bases loaded, our essence striking a homerun; as trekking forever, our journey discolored, our tap-water acidic. I’ve called to winds, as calling to persons, as distinguishing divinity; if but our minds, permeated by our souls, while seated that throne of hearts—to sail by graces, alive our addictions, suited for this voyage; at bears for courage, or deers for innocence, alike to something monstrous: that keen leviathan, sorting through gothic chimes, at tears to ingest a series of crimes: our cryptic silence, as joined to cosmos, while pillaging through ancient tombs: that thought he had, as stumbling upon divinity, where harvest became this flaming inventor. I know our skies, tripping for rising through symbols, at terrors to conduct a symphony: that need for magic, as becoming too familiar, at horrors to lose faith; or more this legacy, as pointing towards mirrors, at silence to convey that subtle element. I’ll sing our song, lonely but crowded, this way of life, emphatic; as driven a soul, this heavy witness, while designed for this voyage: suspending wits; feeling pure affections; such by blankness to utter flame; that channel churning, our lamps by rain, our fountains as waterfalls to heaven—by steep cascades, our inner armor, our trucks as mental squirrels—to see infinity, abusing our wits, fraught by intelligence: our reckless woes; as controlled rebels; to mercy our lights seeking our cause. I know our music—that gourmet fire, grounded in something mysterious: such simulations; as neuro-hearts; or more biochemical intentions—to flicker forever, as so much to live for, inflated by this incessant dying: those towers of darkness; those dichotomous powers; our fallacies as much to die for: if but to expand, our wings as esoteric, our midnights as Sunday Stars.

I Feel Your Force, Love

We adjust, Love—forever at forever, explosive at velvet stars; as rapid lexicons, or morbid gems, at love by sights. (Communion is similar to chemistry; albeit, there are several textures: it becomes imperative to utilize discernment). I know your heart, as first to know his own, swimming through murky humans; to see our mirrors, to examine our arcs, while strangers to our auras: our scudding senses; our flitting frenzies; those few we can’t ignore: where temptation scorns, while galaxies swarm, our silence disrupting our cravings. We treasure friendship, not merely for security, but more for this therapeutic pressure: that jibing and jabbing; that trenchant confidant; those hours to turquoise sensations. (Mothers adore us—while lost in innocence, as realizing a series of dislikes; as, nonetheless, at measures to protect, while falling into shadows: our bleak realities; our shifty moods; that Promise of milk and honey).  We examine fire, as realizing ourselves, at wonders when something is eating away: that horrid disposition; that churning contemplation; our waiting through this throttle of affections: befriending pillows; disgusted with reading; too involved for prayer; indeed, a country by feelings, by living emotions, too concerned for healing: that inner montage; that pillage of darkness; that sudden elation! (I know your heart, this threshing for perfections, that self-conscious conscienceness—leering into adulthood, a bit abrasive while learning, at wonders when clamps seep into silence; this music of arcs, while seated at treasures, a bit too distant from reality; as projecting portraits, those rabid ideals, while much to living, admired. I hear your brains, as first to hear his own, trekking forever to reach his childhood: those jazzy oldies; that sip of beer; our mothers alive by personality: if but to grasp motion, while sectioned by joys, our mornings a bit to recouping). Life is measurements, this wrestling of helms, as participating in those rhythms that ache our souls; as much to grains, to nurture our harvest, at once, to exclaim, “It’s ripe”: this fortune of minds, to love by rapture, while resisting such copious feelings; our flitting souls, so cold but warm, adjudging new things based upon past experience: ourselves as home-plate; our pains as reservoirs; our fears as signposts. (I love a dream, to have held a dream, as stitching dreams).   

I’m reluctant to sing; so driven to sing; by paradox such clutching lightning.

We offend by nature, this casual address, as endearing ourselves. (It’s a terrible tactic, inducing resistance, where said resistance builds a fortress: that tender friction, at once, a smile, as, nevertheless, this fever for vengeance; as aloof-closeness, while used for energies, by capture this flaming as washed; while something watches, at sudden, a name, while filled with indecision; as treaded deaths, while feeling ecstatic, to broach the unspoken: those cryptic sights; that lightheaded spark; our residence by midwaves—to arrive at pillars, this throne of games, this need to feel love—as far a dream, while seated in concrete, by far deathly afraid of abstracts: this village of persons, by terror our minds, by grace exulting our vows; to hold contentions, while floored a mind, peering at similar gestures: they come by cultures, or deep psychiatry, this conglomerate of activities—that mishmash, as concerning humans, our gregarious seeds; where souls perish, as coming to lights, infused by this terrible resistance; to claim our hearts, as wrapped in novelties, by tears to define every gesture—this mixing music, to rekindle eternity, at distance this self as authentic). I see for two, to analyze arcs, I see for three. I see for four, this wooded door, as floored by five; indeed, for six, as falling astray, while too honest to confront their actions.  I was insecure, roaming this island, trying to fathom communion. I was dead a man, alive a spirit, featured in this dissention; while seeing faces, as two would merge, as given me insights into our similarities: this rising castle, those daily pills, this wheel by Ezekiel’s soul. (I loved a human, by error those grounds, while set to suffer that journey; as, nevertheless, this tale of souls, by far that first introduction: that slithering naivety, at once, to ask, “Can one slither unknowingly?” I leave it to minds, as responsible to sing, our years to sewing by arts: that tender friction, as playing our instruments, too wise to fathom our failings; at depreciation, our wings to galaxies, at thunder this ritual of cultures: to call it religion; or cryptic science; at hells to evolve. I loved a matrix, as far as minds can see, at once, a terror to hearts: this reading vessel, as tender to tones, shifting with cadence that heart of pearls; to see his face, or hear her privilege, at wonders to assess her very aura: that energy protruding; that psyche thumping; our aches to see mirrors; as centuries churn, our particles reaching dinosaurs, to confess that rightness to love).     

I Remember that We Can’t Remember

By grace this love, as shivering lightning, at membrance this zenic gene…as songs sung, or dynasties calling, at tender ligaments our stars; to chance beauty, or die grieving, by textures something soft and sweet; that miracle breathing, so strong a force, at silence our crowded rooms—where mothers nurture, while grinding sand, aloof by nature so close; as feeling purpose, but still anxieties, such closures by psychologies: this filthy cleanness, by abstract giants, that petite monster…as composed of screams, that dreamy shadow, as plural as time: to market chaos, shifting by empires, too intelligent for capture; to sing as song-volts, or whisper as song-cults, alive by methods as something dead.  (Our windows rattle, so close by brains, pitching our disasters; that interrogation; those thundering eyes; our tears to mastering gestures; that high acclaim, as churning silence, this festive event our arcs: our Decembers warm; our autumns cagey; our redheads facing stigmata; as deep in limbo, staggering by justice, too convoluted for a forward sentence).  I know so little, as conglomerate time, if but to harness each discrimination: those crooked patterns; that sincere mixture; this game to determine his silence…as fevers settle, constructing as witnesses, at gazes our faces without lights: if but to surface, our boxes to credence, our arias preaching penalties…as seeing thoughts, this manifestation—so unclear his pontiff waves…where pictures aflame, embedded in psyches, but so removed that last calculation…so heavy at memoirs, or reluctant to write, while hectic a fever—that woman’s voice, peering by legacies, a bit too evolved to find closure…this complaisant montage, this mental mishmash, our dreary eyes filled with divinity: if but to swim, this current of interpretations, while missing a plethora of information…as, nonetheless, relying on senses, condemned to senses, as furious as senses.  (It was ill to meet you…that curious condemnation…at once to define me: that deep charisma; as subtle as time; while quick for wars…that mystic hearse, as invisible texture, while singing we disagreed: to call him perfect; that academic stigma; or more to confusion inquiring of abstracts: to sense for delusion; working at paranoia; while structuring sensitive receptors: that delirious soul; peering at illusions; too subtle to claim concrete arts…but, nevertheless, we trail by markets, silenced by silence, at fires astray…this treble pulsation; our intimate ghosts; this circling of Alcatraz).       

Forever At Songbirds

I’m seeing, Love—as erased with time, as seeing, Love—infused with time. (Our contradictions, fueled with deaths, at breath tired and dragging through battles; to come to, Love—by shadows’ drudgeries, pulling at thunder—to die a vision, as living a scream, at forever by tensions). I’m hearing, Love—but captive a star, this resistance to words…as only us, where men are savage, as to have adored your cadence; while, nonetheless, we ache for vengeance, our winters so cold, our autumns insidious. We’re making jazz, tiptoeing our dance, at mercy to fall apart unstudied—that horrid conviction, at wealthy eyes, at balance such our edges—as suited funerals, refusing deaths, while escaping our webbish minutes. (I saw you a box, fiddling through blueprints, accustomed to total disgust: to ask of dust, its immortal texture, as present before time: our bones writhing; our saliva as DNA; our saber tooth genetics; to arrive to death, rejecting his premise, while abused by suppositions: that crying mountain; our seconds to plaques; this love to chance but fire). We held a thought, chiming a whetstone, our textures melding into silence: that arc through minds; those wings through hearts; our flying and dying, while singing of sanity—to love forever, at clear disasters, fretting our mother’s music—to find by deer, our eyes to innocence, our gestures premeditated—as such, a miracle, to display such correlation, where essence has wrung its fever. I’m loving, Love—three miles to glory, wrestling a furious storm. I’m dreading, Love—one hour to fate, fumbling an internal memoir—while, nevertheless, this sheer confusion, for wanting to attain, where attainment becomes infectious: that crime we sung, while ever at dungeons, to come to terms loving forbidden cries. Oh to die with you, as living to flee with you, where rapture becomes a flying ache; as grieved our lights, by methods our courage, to stare by eyes screaming, “I hate you.” Such flurry by passion, our inner marble-bread, our toppings flavored by dying: that canvas of bones; our fluids as paint; our eyes forever watching.

Inner Barnacles

We yield by wisdom, conditioned by lights, our daughters swimming clouds—while privileged by rites, our rafts wobbly, our extensions tugging at roots; such as magnifying, our murky glass, pelted by resistance; to fumble excellence, while seizing glory, our dreams to avalanches.  We texture silence, seated by rivers, breathing while animals scurry: our torn tunics; our consecrations; our inner renewals—if but to live, our welkin decisions, as mulct by appetites.       

Shift

What is such madness, this pillage by sacrifice, this space reaching for oxygen?

I face dilemmas; this inward bear; this face of humans…while weary to sights, feeding on instruments, about his mind’s reluctance: fraught by frustration, seated by no-thing, at measures bombarding his brains; this psyche of souls, to perch with resistance, to admire an inner distance.

Shift

We love for closure, our methodic violins, pressure to acknowledge our grays; that palm of seaweed, those joyous attributes, our waves to ethical pains: this grave as breathing, while seizing loins, to defeat as such to revive—that achy curse, to strengthen with time, this inner game of non-romanticism: if but to caves, splayed before our tribunals, to awaken in moisture.

Shift

I’ve known beauty, as seeing so many forms, at arcs impressed by a clear conscience; this place of tyrannies, harvested in brains, as, herein, we die a thousand deaths. Our poets scream; our novelists cringe; our musicians rage through mood-shifts; as all for sameness, this exchange of curses, at woes to capture that tropical feeling; as pure amazement, or sheer weariness, this expectance of inner survival: our blankness; our troubled rhythms; our memories by mirrors.

Shift  

If life is gray, we offend black and white, while acting in black and white; at total disclosure, this rare physics, hereto, a product of human experience; to plead for glory, awakened by behavioral tactics, while forced to adhere to convictions: this philosophy of silence; as sensing for differences; while flabbergasted by those waiting volts; or more to consciousness, as trespassed our vineyards, our souls sensing themselves; that sudden nuance, that shift in intensity, that gaze piercing from crypts our eyes; to examine life, while watching self, afloat dreamy-sadness.

Shift

I can’t erase this feather of information, as logged within memory banks; as pulled by wires, at widths with life, treasured at this vessel of redemptions: that inner tile, paved with islands, at forces to feel that lark; as more to mystery, this science our existence, while warring fires.   

Immortalized As Bone

By acrid lakes, our pawing souls, our doctors forbidden laughter: By delirious states, gnawing his brains, burping up snakes; that time at symbols, a shovel to his pit, a mudslide to his heart; while hating gardenias, or fretting roses, that sweet nectar has become vinegar—those burgundy bruises; that giddy torture; our days fettled by doubts: to destroy his organs, by guzzling acids, by terrorizing kidneys.  Such lethal forgiveness, by errors unsightly, nibbling shards of glass: that professor’s valley; our mothers at sky-chimneys; our deaths as reminders of this achy light—albeit, a sentence, peeling black magic, at terrors our mystic cries—at depth for horrors, as returned a ghost, by nectarines ingesting phantoms: our morbid music; as gothic wings; peering at textural tones: our euphonic highs, as cried his life, our shelters to apparitions.  We gather with sadness, afflicted by kindness, a cheetah at pity our lives—to seek silence, our sky-lanterns churning, our miracles pitting our karmas—where beauty shimmers, those breaking blocks, that arrogant smile—as laughed his mind, to deconstruct his heart, at terrors to remember that rising tomb.  I heard bleating, to ask of principles, by rules to follow by blind treacheries—those forgiven goats…that pardoned demon…our whys satiated by mercies—to fathom our cries, our huts built upon mountains, our rivalries by samsara—as seeking anitya, if but the fire, as all things lack independent nature, (by curses our sadness appears independent): that burdensome tempo; that sky-fever echoing; our rings by fractions our dusty tombs: if but our pleasures, as clever our wrangling(s), while wrists wrestle for freedoms: our platinum nails; our wingspan traumas; while justice becomes an accidental canvas.  We circle lagoons, peaking by pills, alive this inner generation—by feeding ancestors, upon walls in caves, our swans as petroglyphs; that native arc, by rites a tare instructive, an ape to recognize his face—while thriving at porticos, or flaming by booths, our minds hailing its nature—that deep incision, by aches and thetic, forever by chase…becoming cadenzas: such aero-dynamics, our skeletons static, upon our screams.    

If but to Understand

We try so hard, fumbling addictions, transferring one for another; that inner spaceship, those bulbous eyes, that woman calming her instincts. I feel for lost, such certainty through years, at lioness for comforts; that outer wizardry, that doll my face, our pins poking his arch; to capture alchemy, our gold as pleated, our woes as cheated; where daughters writhe, seated in velvet blues, probing a mother’s countenance: that augury of tales, a snail through healings, at pace this psych a bit beyond wise. I’ll die wanting, this craving of cannibals, at punctures to conjure our Ghost: this verse by runes, our crooning sensations, our cygnet at rails trekking deserted tracks: if but to sing, this plethora of grassland, peering at that inner knight; as forgiven that sin, where squirrels nurse a tender spine: if but as sought, this mixture of terrors, while at love this mental Smith; where courage is blank, as bold our torrents, a handkerchief to ruby eyes; to fill a spell, this woman so invented, as scraping herself from dust—those particle roads, as seasoned at grace, peering into black magic; while balms to virtue, at course with queens, a bit too evolved for sincere broaching(s): that mystical ache; our black art trainings; this music a bit too performed; but hell to life, as hell to proprieties, while admiring, maintaining mental persuasions—this vest of tiles, our faces depicted, our music as stippled in Braille: if but to breathe, this woman at tears, abroad this scope of scales; where father grieves, as mothers dance, if but to maintenance that lit’d nucleus: our valued truths, amused but failing, as one attempts a perfect answer: this vat to brains, to become immortal, while our worlds are oblivious. It comes to heart, this swan of mimics, at serious strides to exist; where arts are vivid, while hells are livid, indeed, to venture a daisy. I search for sureness, while bleeding sureness, at terrors to arrive at sureness: our dreamy eyes, that deepness as swarming, if but to muse by distance this diamond. It should be grace, this mistaken affinity, while at tears to capture while letting go; so life to musing, such as nonphysical, approaching life with pliers: that mystical grin, those shifting eyes, by measure as losing silent disposition: that myth of love, at touch a clove, at mirrors a mind; or more afloat, a passing whim, by far too secluded for attraction.     

Internal Vocals/Mental Memoirs

I’d perish love, this velvet blanket, so foreign your eyes. I’d rescue—this helium feeling, as to enter love; that cultic womb, a man to years, as enveloped in distance: our writhing shame, seeking repentance, as pulled, yanking silence; this space in moons, this lion of droves, our cheetahs abandoned. I’d venture loses, if but embrace, encased in acids; that sultry ribbon, that bodily masterpiece, our exchanges as pure lusts; where mothers warn, while sons chase, to feel something indifferent. We die forever, awaiting our graves, tipsy for falling into situations: that gray headed cat, afflux this terrible sin, as grinning to die Satan’s passage; whereto, this sinister deed, or this glorious infusion, this soul piercing this cultic nun; to die by rivers, exploding at sanctuaries, engrossed but trailing indifference; wherewith, are restraints, while repenting to priests, as eyes spread painting our destinies. I adored a cygnet, to find such loss, where time would ask of tutelage: that inner compass, by a man’s palms, our fingers elusive to dynamics. I curse for falling, involved in rituals, that sudden indelicate fire—thereto, a missive, as spirit cageyness, to find with essence this privileged disappearance: out cats clawing; our puppies whining; this faraway dream watching; but life is passion, our austere memoirs, our immortalized pass-tenses—while deeply predicated, this subject of nouns, our fires as adjectives; but stay awake, pillaging spirit-dungeons, at contemplation but mere a vehicle; as mother cringes, this colorless voice, while souls are a bit enchanted with youth. I’ve danced aloofness: I’ve chanced alligators: to come with time as moving relentlessly: as born eternal, peering at blood, while so enchanted by rejection; or earth his life, torn with psychologies, while delving deeper into nonchalance: this smart woman, as living immortally, at travesties to admit attraction. I’d die forever, to purchase by experience, this vest as caving into spheres: if but to live, or but to die, or but to extinguish that inadequate feeling: our moons as shady; our sun as mirrors upside down; or left to right this aesthetic masterpiece; to sing with wolves, as floored with liquor, while ever again pleading for clearance: this majestic force, as sharing with diamonds, while affected by green pastures; to love a minx, as becoming friends, aloof to our negative insecurities: this mystic forest, or our captive meadows, by arts this furious love-fest; where fathers muse, as mother cry, if but our siblings admeasuring worth.          

Debris

I can’t but lost, fueled but gone, to speak appropriate language; to find that voice, as cursed a dream, to imagine shimmering eyes. I can’t but dance, to fix a broken bridge, at tears crawling through lithic caves: this concrete grieving; our mirrors at battle; such myths set for authentication. I must to retreat, as failing his stature, this semi-alcoholic—as quasi-religious, afforded disgrace, while pitted in forming things; this person as alive, while found groveling, if but this swan to realize human conviction. I died to green eyes, this furry our brooks, while confirmed of misdeeds; but more to flowers, as cured an illness, this dream afloat a distant stream; as purposed forgotten, our innards rotten, while sludge’n through normal activities: our mystic urns, to ingest a human, while gnawing through bone: that furious cry, our nights to ghosts, to awaken filled with Christ. I must imagine, those days of clarity, by hills this echo claiming our sanity: that terrible indigo, that dew seeping into missives, our capture as glowing in demons—to arise a father, or more a mother, at treacheries to escape our treacheries. I called forever, our tones renouncing clearance, while to tortures this tyranny of angels: that captive feeling, as retreating harmony, as, too, misguiding literature. It could be gentle, if each weren’t afraid, where truths would destroy a family; but more to fingers, this pointing of hells, while broken a bridge fumbling. I cry by colors, familiar with its own, while mourning this trek of paths; but more to swans, at pure ingestion, seeking for rising into majesty: that treble heart-structure; this want by futures; our pulses thrust into serious conflicts; where answers immerge, while mothers cringe, as fathers are filled with disgust. I must retreat, as seasoned a fool, by which, we become this glorious mansion; to seize for justice, while pitted in wars, accursed for thriving through truths. I feel by pains, aloof to this loss, while revving for this future; where swans see, as mothers maneuver, while mercy becomes a prominent force.

Day Two

I arise by cellos, seated by symphonies, peering into allegories; that cold offensive, our bold inventions, this troublesome sipping; to see through mirrors, that convincing thought, while to retreat for closure: our miracle miles; our cabinet violins; while seasoned to play pretend. I try by love, to embrace such feelings, where reality clashes with instincts: that cry for justice, as aching passions, while dripping into merry-go-rounds: that dream as grieving; our seams as threatened; this long held treachery as singing by mountaintops: those curious eyes; that parrot by mimicry; where sewers are gilt’d in gold: our furious tomorrows; our furious yesteryears; this feeling by guts that rupture: as pure suspicion, garnered from self-perception, this vehicle of self-projections; for life was dim, for self was darkened, wherefore, all human activity becomes slanted. I flee to fly, falling into jadedness, at once, afloat that one kiss; to feel ferocious, trekking with jaguars, our love sustaining heartbeats; indeed, to dream, as wanting beyond our reception, or craving for something we can’t receive; this secret of love, as reaching its reflection, while we pine for glory. It comes as facts, this needs to feel it, by measures to embrace it—where it lives within, or flames by psyches, else, to perish yearning for something that appears foreign. We dance to trumpets, pitted with alligators, befriending crocodiles—this vision is hindsight, our rearview grieving, that tragic feeling permeating our households; to know for scandalous, those privy concerns, falling as fumbling through icecream.     

Ingested Through Silence

Is it Rihanna or Arlissa or Hannah this cannibal's cravings? (I live it lividly, as cautious as cheetahs, amused so deeply—this feral queen, at love an ache, while composed a Victorian warrior—where eyes close, as noses bleed, this fever at torture our screams). I mourn a swan, as feeling contentions, by waves searching for clarity; to live it lividly, at bars by sentences, at scars by fences; this plural atmosphere, skipping for crawling, our music a tare gothic—to expand or expatiate, while grieving for clearance; that awful killing, our daughters to deserts, while attempting to shake vengeance: this rapturous awe; so explosive as slaves; while courting this exotic dream: our mothers to purgatory; our fathers at prisons; our notions of justice a torture one-sighted: that myopic existence, where secrets kill courage, this feeling aching his fragile bones. I heard a feeling, as echoed a castle, where such as death became beauty: that rigid perspective, as willing to forgive, while days became this tit-for-tat: that leopard as spotted; that lion as roaring; our owls as confessing they saw infinity: that cagey dance, to chance her heart, while affronted for claiming communion; or more that dread, as desiring desire, while at wakes professing our loses. It comes with vengeance, this miracle of legends, while wishing we’d converse but a second in courtyards—this feral backlash, to have said too much, while losing at graces a treasured soul: this furious soldier, set at stations, while floored to ceilings at blind bats. I love a swan, this welkin web, as seething for something akin to justice; this mix of races, our faces forbidden, this needs to mix with like minds; else, to tortures, this addict in a vacuum, our grandfathers oblivious to such richness: that deep confliction, as feeling abandoned, at men’s throats prior to confessions; to live as torn, while graves are bleeding, this table an affair for culture: that woman dying; those engrained beliefs; this fix to exist outside a mixed box. I must retreat, peering at a gorgeous swan, a tare to brains trying to fix destiny. (My dearest swan; remember The Matrix, while adjusting through promises; for this is life, to live or die, as dying to live; where arts are gray, while actions are vivid, insomuch, as, nevertheless! This dream as driven; our ashes as rising; our lambs as universal: to grip by arcs, this wealth of obedience, while chiseling a perfect façade. I want to lie, but this is life, these faking lights until they become real. We do it to live, in this tiny world, meeting our faces time and again. We do it to exist, where brains are epitomes—of something that may not be at full fruition; so more to cadence, shifting through pyramids, at terrors those Hieroglyphs).     

Take Chances

Give us brains, this time of dreams, this comic as spirit-blood; to capture forever, this present feeling, as killing his soul; to stream women, this immortal force, at tears to admit such dire concerns: if but to flourish, as broken a scar, our particles fleeing invention; that therapeutic, a psych by skins, to winds this flux—as passing quarters, seeping into slaughtered sheep, our metaphors becoming our mirrors; to die at treasures, enlove but mortal, to find flowers to graves—that beige enchantment, those terrible features, to love psychoses—where men fail, but hovered a planet, so close as fiddling grime—to curse by arts, this emphatic disappearance, our hearts feeling presence—to reappear, so anxious a tear, seeing life consume a queen: that miracle breakthrough, our dying days, our wails flickering by majesty—to pray but gods, this torn confliction, our theologians as patient as sinning; this mortal moon, for immortal rises, to fluctuate gracefully. I’ve torn a vessel, as cured a reply, to find with vengeance this immortal force; while gods cried, our goddess explodes, at fury this fretting battle—to cattle a feeling, as to reward a ghost, while floored and beaming desertion: this medieval dice, at tortures to love, while leering at insanity—by coming close, at touches with Zen, to have lived by radiance—that countenance crying, that woman watching, as both to controls; to want for skins, this wretched anxiety, where arts become a vivid catastrophe. I’m seeing mother, that fatal step, as contemplating to murder her son; this music disagreed, this disagreement as shallow, this woman as a cocaine goddess; to filter spaces, as assessing worth(s), while a genius at souls—to enter that place, our psychotic features, this mythic broom; to die at tortures, amused with violence, a product of Langston’s dregs: that furious flower, as nibbling apricots, while plotting disasters; indeed, such patience, to outlive our sheep, infused by Confucius—that torn legacy, as abused in texture, where greed became an overall motivator—as diamonds live, this feral spirit, too wild to acquiesce. I’ve loved to retreat, for life is too short, as giving immortality to a turnip—as never we could, exposed as sinners, fleeing where concrete settles—that static disaster, our mortal devices, this music streaming as but a second.    

Through Crevices & Caves & Intricate Forums

What by love those meanings; to find such titillation, plus, that monster’s air, wherefore, mirrors cause vanity’s distresses; or by tears to suffer, those achy, vulnerable sensations, whereby, it afflicts by sheer fever to gaze upon our beloved? I adventured a faze; at love by confusion; or was it life constructing this fortress of jails; to pardon our souls, wherewith, that depreciation, by which, this bluish tulip our symbol of sorrows. We spoke by frequencies: laughing internally; singing by cadence; responding with sensory, thereto, that seeping extension; while ever we perished, our eyes envied, our trebled cleats clutched in marshy soil. I’m falling by nausea, abandoned by color, as one would pillage to communicate effectively by their prized silence: our cultures grieving; this method lost to feelings; at measures, to avoid those wailing meadows by nothingness; those bolts of monotony; this coming into fortune, whereby, fortune dissipates; as living forever that ride into deserts our camels seated awaiting kindness; or to kick a donkey, as such would speak, by pains to chastise such madness by prophets. Our responses discourage feelings; but, nonetheless, we acknowledge deception; while weary to communicate, for self-consciousness becomes a force. I saw conviction; that secret psychoses; at all times so enchanting. I would court fair insanity, while displaying insanity, where said insanity would flee. It serves as a signpost; this banner outwitting its creator; whereat, becomes a session of inner turmoil; hereto, we convey our woes; that psychologist carrying duress; or that psych carrying affliction. We surmise by myths; our predicaments a touch dissimilar, while traveling familiar vestibules; insomuch, as tentacles—those scaly particles, piercing glass-thoughts, as shards sprinkle into our membranes. I see such as sawdust or more those mazelike fibers or more this person skiing our synaptic gaps—as such by inverted miseries, this melancholic joy, hitherto, sipping in passing. We die with passions, as disgruntle pegs, while thrust into a tent of disharmony; heretofore, this jaded disposition, while life is rushing its torrents, abused mainly by an inner mechanism: that soft anguish; our fastidious moods; our habits becoming troublesome—as daring to speak, mistaking something seemingly trite, where lights glisten once that message is revived; that terrible sin by jinn(s) of glory, whereto, acts become this admeasured glory; or else to deaths, by pressures unbeknownst, this assertion contained in too much power. (Must we perish, for falling from grace, this man becoming a pariah? I trekked city alleys and mental forests trampled by insidious cravings; as beauty would kill science, while science emotes passion, wherefore, our hearts would thump by mere a thought; to have that sensation, these valleys of truths, to ponder so deeply our lights shimmer through darkness). I must confess those jasper elations, where sun to tears those edgy regrets: this stubborn soul, as seated in perils, to have lost a great deal chasing our inner pavements; to come to life, while becoming solid, and, too, a measure distinguished as frigid; wherefore, are woes, as humans are sensitive, as desiring that gentle touch; but more contagious is that fevered knowingness, where behavior becomes an adventure; that inner slant, as comported through structure, at which, comes this sense of chaos: our rumbling stomachs; our keen perceptions; as, too, becoming this semi-detached alien; but, nonetheless, this seeking of promise, as administering a series of passages, in which, behavior is admeasured through constructed intuition; indeed, a curse, but more to glory, as found roaming those cavy valleys, at stressors for clearance, while dying this grave of rebirths. (I should advise about this terrible loss, where amazements comes through pure innocence, while precepts and premises prevent total harmony: that inner person, growing through studies, at temptations to prejudge persons: that torn disdain; that deep vulnerability; this treacherous paradox). 

Falling Upwards

I’m agaze’d by silhouettes, this partial shadow, such interior inversion. I’ve lived to soar, nibbling clovers, wishing upon a dream. I tremble, that event in lives, trespassing tender memories: this edgy fire, flickering blue flames, weeping by a perfect countenance. It was life to die, afflicted a biblic war, to whisper at self, “Courage.” Our daughter’s shame, engraved in hopes, while to witness this hiding of nothing. I’ve lived a curse, gnawing at pillars, a halo upon sewers; to read closely, our lowly lives, our mentals rapt’d in cobwebs. (So far to learn, while craving that image, such projections to perish softly: such visions of converse, those two judging distantly, as far removed from those trebled dregs: our shojis dying; while to morph a monster; such beauty destroying his heart: as subtle instructions; or wild deer; our murals depicting such majesty. I’ve lived in dungeons, trekking a series of laps, spared by this woman’s cadence; to harvest this life, unknown to mirrors, to capture a glimpse as rapture disappears. I mimic magic—this physic of unrest, a bit too fragile that analyses—where mother wept, this return of fury, elsewhere, a nonchalant savage; to miss he couldn’t earn, as learned his life, while churning in grayness: that vulnerable memoir; this losing of texture; that place too insecure to venture). I’ve captured a feeling, while torn a warrior—too many loses to calculate darkness; that sightless scarecrow, fraught by pigeon dung, this replica of soreness—our orange existence, as beige a scream, while at wires to balance as trapeze artists: our mothers weaning; our fathers at patience; our siblings feeling peeved: if but to dance, that fragrant feeling, as more to yearn eternally. I felt our tempo, so disturbed our lives, while healing breeds a sense of distance: our projected inheritance; our torrent pressures; as to capture what we must defend; for vultures watch, as carving concrete, our minds treading pavement: our meters beeping; our ripples fluttering; our admiration becoming a silent prison; to want forever, as giving infinity, while to reap a sanction of turmoil: that sad poet, attempting to alter cadence, our wives at tears our missives; to share this glass, our hours fading, our austere milieus becoming claustrophobic—that kindred garden, unspent by sorrow—that deep rescue seeking its outlet—where courage is verdant, as, too, our prison—by which, we dream, at such maniacal terrors, seated in bubble-bath laughter. I cleat’d lowly, at tears for nonsense, this thing of feeling damnation; at songs to perish while sensing rightness, a bit aloof to losing his music; as, nonetheless, this music of swans, fumbling through Trixie, at membrance that fretful lovelight; by which, was trauma, as beginning in sorrows, while to grip for life something forsaking itself: (Our faithful battles: our saliva to wounds; while never such ecstatic nectar); our harrowing scars, at flux to peel a scab, peering at twilight eyes; that rich fuel, to abandon fear, while at once, a steadfast whisper: that brilliant heart; that twinkling arc; that moment of membrance; insofar, as love, this channel we drain, while at flux to capture ecstasy. (At war to cascade; at hate to forgive; at terrors this path of theologians…to feel objectivity, while appearing with subjectivity, this torture as bending scientific truths; to gallop forever, as proving his worth, too far a soul that churns). I’ll enter nightfall, screaming at night-walls, scraping by texture that beaming azure: our burning threshing; those topaz wails; our sleep to wolves brimming in tyrannies: if but to live, a soul so close, while falling upwards.     

Such by Nearness as Elusiveness

We love the straying heart, as confused to blues, attempting to concrete such as hearts; that perfect person, as flawed his childhood, an allusion by stronger women; to courage atmosphere, such a dreary soul, made atlas this map of woes. I die losing death, as afforded gods as driven, to become this flicker that fades; for love is contagion, that flamboyant gem, our nights promised to pains; to pass torches, as if for solace, that barrel fraught with agonies; as lived a soul, exclaiming faith, while forbidden to sanctuaries; this harlot ache, that man to tears, our handkerchiefs filled with vomit; as deep our devils, infused by thunder, to have love as purities—that shame by pride, as aloof to regrets, to fill it simmering something viciously—that lake of furies, that steep algae, our limbs wrapped in cat-eyes; to find with glory, this tale of devils, while, nonetheless, reaching for rifting whales. I’ve lost control, as fretting disaster, a village at predicted volume; where love was surfing, prior to instruction, as feared those languid cries; where love forbids, this ache of oneness, while fevered to chains those endless horizons; that walk as lethal, at contention for freedoms, at seasons, a moment in essence. It comes, my Love—this gear at stripping, where adored was silence, by chase our moons—to die as peasants, our cemented violence, as such is rendered effects; that cause to love, as holding by promise, such value losing its fever; wherewith, are lies, this daily tale, while broiling steaks. I love a jewel, as frantic our taste, so close by seasoned fairness; as folding linen, while exchanging pillowcases, staring at something deadly; that fading away, where voices wail, while feelings become enwombed; this force as driven, to rejuvenate weekly, while sensing this need for fires. We heard to perish, as hearing to live, changed by essence this feral falcon; to lose interests, while seeking interests, afraid that time moves at a snail’s pace: that welkin arc, effused by feelings, at terrors to sever our mirrors: that lithic person, accursed but swimming, at terrible lengths to conceal rabidness. It comes with failures, as, too, successes, at treacheries to exist: that mythic cry, as assuaged by tides, while peering at emotional blackmail; to see for normal, this animated abrasion, where said tears become joyful. (But what to equality, as two realize—this desire to fly freely; where time harbors security, as self is breathing, cleaving to this inner humor: that mystic strength, those joyous calms, while, nevertheless, seeking adventures: that dangerous soul, as tugging emotions, while fulfilling this dread of jadedness: that casual fall, that eternal smile, while reaching until cache fails: that deep contempt, where treacheries appear, or more this needs to rejuvenate daily: that caption in plaques, our memories as propellers, our arcs as restoring beginnings; to opt for longevity, while sealing off disasters, as two become infectious; therewith, are joys, this place of self-worth, our nights as ensuing music).  

Wings Often Cause Disharmony

I sit at comforts, peering at names, abashed by lotic feelings; to exchange life, by mere a gesture, at ecstasies this chance to fit: as inner chimes, by shooting volts, our unspoken language; where perils rapture, as to life our dreams, at seconds filled with bliss; this miracle of souls, our Bentley coupes, bottles by tests as sensations; to love eternal, our widths exploding, while fire streams our crimson veins. I loved a shadow, this torn vexation, while also to adore a swan; this flux of emotions, at tints to evolve, while mirrored in treacheries; that fabulous kiss, as one for pleasures, at rivalry with high expectations; this chase of thieves, afflux harmonies, at tears that sacred shame. I’m more to sights, as aflame that arc, teaching through chaos concentration; where swans freedom, this tent of elation, by arks afloat a series of hummingbirds; as, too, discomforts, this growth through pangs, as livid with joys our discoveries; while given life, as provided with wings, our racetracks flooded with dry emotions. I fret to see us, living our domains, at judgments by myriads of tales: that lens bleeding; our filters screaming; this needs to search for inconsistencies—while, nonetheless, at war with perceptions, as dictated by another’s fears; this place in eyes, as castles abroad, where tendencies avert pure perception; but this is life, asearch for signs, while congested by impure expectations; this place of trauma; those years to theater; our hearts bombarded by images. I love that heart, those beige dreams, those Cajun roots; as fevered for science, while ecstatic a brain, where fusions come through self-efforts: our cyan skies; our fulvous visions; our tales to those wishing disjunction: if but to breathe, a bit flushed this life, our intestines speaking our ambitions; where swans flourish, as grieving humanity, a touch to fancy this equal of arcs; to sing of passions, while at tears to vanish, as realizing it’s time to fly. It must be gentle, as not to ruin life, or more this chiseled abrasion; to ask for clearance, while destroying innocence, this thing as quite abnormal. I felt a volt, to conjure that name, while afforded grace to believe: this instinct of souls, as fueled with love, by arts this sequence of cadence; where love is flying, as flying in breaking free, while freedom singes naivety: this space of woes, as senseless with growth, as opposed to seeking fruits. I end in love, at birth this feeling, and soaring our dreams through sky-mansions.   

Weeping Jubilation

This thing with guts, flowing by heartcaves, becoming obsessions; those inner armoires, our garments aloof, while we steady for character: that sudden fury, to influx a spark, where twins ignite fire; to become with time, this entity as chased, while offended by resistance—as pacing forward, to slant towards walls, our vestibules paved in ironies; as casual fools, by nights to slaughter, abrasive by nature: that cultic dream, this force of wings, as afloat by grays our churnings; where Love was perfect, prior to humanity, as one flawed by experience; that cryptic phoenix, at such phallic appeal, by weaponries to retreat; as hostage a storm, or burgundy a grave, so enslaved to justice; as so much a scar, insofar, a scream, where love was myth during distresses. We grog sorrow, a vat to misery, such symbols distressing life—our cold existence, forever at protection, as so involved we fail to exist; that gravid flame, as gravid rain, enchanted by something phrenic: that inner music; that silent voice; our paws as portraits upon clouds; to feel for courage, that revving voltage, as undergoing shock-treatment; this weft of feelings, while knitted to chaos, attempting to fathom mystery; while proud to give, this fever to swans, our vatic estimations—where vox is cadence, as cadence is fire, our minds marred by love—to sing eternal, this bell as chimes, as heard our knell of times—that seated attendance, peering at a carcass, by growth to realize our fading faces; that turn in urns, to nibble but a taste, our fanes as fantasts screams; such febrile states, appearing picturesque, our faceless portrait abrupt—where signs flux through perception, this participation, hunting for correlations—if but a dream, this fixture of existence, to find one living by pure imagination—while knowing it lives, so detached from self, at claims to court realities: that nimbus flickering, as appearing in presence, our eyes dictated by our brains—as wishing upon trefoils, our hearts asunder, our spittle crimson wine; therewith, are illusions, as paved in textures, while fumbling our expressions—to become that person, an urbane expressionist, or more a flushed saint; as courting delusion, while never so alive, to realize by facts that courting of impressions—to perish wit Love, a fathom as a grave, a pillar as a bride, but reality as a mule: this nexus of passions, as sensing disjunction, while, nonetheless, chasing ponies—or more for unicorns, that serious acclamation, such tenderness by whispers; to spread for rumors, while life is watching, to realize his thoughts serve a pattern: our sultry gemstones; our chapel infinities; that dreamlike trembling; as severed by lights, while torn through windows, our bodies afloat magnificence. (I loved as seeing—this crucible of crucifixions, a portrait by his ceiling; to hope her name, as photic as electricity, while frightened to hear rejection; as courting winds, to attend by graces, this funeral of screams—our cultic plights, as mere conjecture, by rites known as chemistry; this flux of science, or our religiosity, to go that space where demons wail: if but a scar, I’ll live freely, or but a test, I’ll die grieving; but life is love, as misappropriated textures, where eye-gazing ignites neurotransmitters; this voice of waves, as crazed musicians, while others harness that incredible sensation). Afire we sail, our raging seas, headed for our Odyssey—where oceans breathe, this flux of gods, our minds whet for encounters; that sheer convergence, as anthropomorphic, studied by centuries—as feeling her life, in exchange for his, where two are sanctioned to exist as strangers: this tale of droves; our weeping jubilation; while made privy to those joys of chaos.             

Silent Sanctums

I hear your essence, screaming but nonchalantly, at perils to exist our brains; this lavish music, at mercy such love, while stressing a series of goblins. I saw for faces, at chase an image, slanted by associations: that feral fence; those trenchant wells; our emotions to guillotines; insomuch, as thoughts, to conjure ecstasy, pouring into concrete: this barreling fever, as challenged his grays, at pace to adventure his myths; where mother cries, as warning about pits, our daughters pleading our existence: that achy passion; our lambent sessions; those moments gripped in anxieties; wherewith, those arms, that shift in silence, or sudden a volt by meditations; thereto, a dream, to become enraptured, while encased in visions: that long trail; that sea of violence; that mixture of personalities: as feeling beauty, while engrossed in others, this song sacrifices souls. I must confess, this physical terror, while enchanted that mystic chandelier; at terrible textures, your frightening powers, while becoming deathly aloof: that attic battle, as cattle our feelings, this running by voice to capture sorrows; for love was adverse, an inverted kindness, while deep for life at admirations; to sing softly, this method of scars, while afforded this achy silence; as becoming surgery, that inner cadence, to break with sanity’s reach: that falling moon; our sun to music; our stars as sullen harbingers—to feel at energies, that month of infusion, while becoming intimidated; to vet through feelings, this measured insecurity, whereby, one retreats. (I’m picking portraits, that place in brains, removing Love from her pedestal: our torn gardens; our flowing petals; our gardenias shedding tears; therewith, are scars, this welling upheaval, for years forged impressions: this want for irony; this tale of souls; our passions at breaths our retrievals; to find our mirrors, buried in seaweed, as to unravel furious imageries: that sailing flute; those mystical organs; our countries as internal wizardries; where love could live, if but for sacrifice, if but a hundred years younger: that space in time; as filled with statues; aloof to resistance: that inner soul; that outer spirit; at once, to invade our silent sanctums). 

Emotions As Rivers

Leaves are rustling; squirrels are tussling; while thoughts are rabid by chaos; to calm with patience, those adverse skies, ignoring his majesty. Souls are shifting, where palms are bleeding, such nails piercing millennia. I fiddle through pages, inverted by terrors, as staring at skeletons: that ageless grief, existence as black art, our auditoriums fraught by cries: our prosaic ballads; our theologies writhing; such as doctrine becoming visceral. Such voiceless doves, at love his arc, this eclectic invasion; at midnight pudding, by axes for logic, our touchstones refusing clarity: to vacant by space, alert to moving objects, as, nonetheless, frozen as animated—those inner reflections, as gothic museums, pacing rugs ten thoughts closer—that frantic wind, aflame his quarters, our chimneys by soot as evidence: this gravid rotation; our tumbling by weeds; as essentially existential: that livid benediction; that soiree of feelings; such cagey flirtations. I read a love letter, such violent emotions, too cold to journey summer: those pacing clichés; those mystique intentions; such pulchritude our northern nightmares; as fumbling Chardonnay, our jacinth blues, aforetime, a flute by moons; that distracting beauty, while tugging emotions, a man craving another’s station; to harness regrets, to possess travesty, by cages a sheer catastrophe; where doctrine flickers, that war with self, this forbidding of mirrors—as moving our lives, kneeling at estuaries, feeding feral instincts. I’m palming bark, fiddling a glass harmonica, unable to touch sounds: that sarcoline trauma; those beige mountains; at horrors, that echo thriving—to hear for essence, this breastplate of violets, that vine of grapes; to wish by craving, at little for evidence, attached to our imaginations: those alabaster emotions; that molasses of feelings; our offices to ponder futility; at hopes by flames, aloft such mental treacheries, to find for cadence something gentle: that musicality; that tone of justice; that miracle as language touching souls; insofar, as warmth, this preference for love, where passions are ever available: that limn of life, concerned with living, to flit as flying internally: that nice richness, as pursuing eternity, by earth to witness peaceful conventions. Such is cosmic dust, or that feeling for Zion, racing as chasing that inner image; to hear by voice, this legacy of nothingness, as to harness this potential for somethingness: our Pneuma groaning, this glint flickering, our virtues at battle. (I hint by thoughts, as opposed to claiming such grief, where Love ached at morals: that casual perusal; that posy of emotions; our fens flipping rabidly; to see such passion, aflame in thoughts, as to never face cosmic cradles—as love perfects, this timely capsule, gripping to securities: if healthy our minds, or livid our souls, perfected by piety).           

Mystic Swan (Afloat by Islands)

Greetings, Love: our tempo to galaxies; our souls to seeking; our measurements divine: where faces glisten, at textures our arts, pitted in fiery concentration: to move as snails, at wings such love, fleeing into angelic flames. I remember palms, so delicate our music, becoming a swanic lady; those silent gamut(s), as endued by cherubs, at length our pith that wails: our sodden seconds; our rattling bones; such by knitted opus: to sing by rivers, or merge through gardens, feeling by aches our pangs: our welkin growth, as spurting through dimensions, again by palms something gentle; that signet star, aflame our cultures, a bit misty through foggy acres—that trek by trails, embedded in shadows, disguised in such glorious joys: our vehicles to mystery, as revving enchantments, twisted insignia our treasures; as years groan, our wandering islands, our summit a negligent opera—to witness tragedy, as living its legacy, a sore more rounded than naivety: that dark intuition; our hearts beating ecstasies; our veils rooted in cement—that static chime, that inrush of symbols, our ember at such splendors; to beat eternal, our nectar to heaven, our gravity inverted—that upward wind, tapping to touché, cloven at sullen aches. We bathe in magic, our arts so weary, as shifting through experience; to rev by brains, graven by hearts, our stream as mystical. We love as miracles, flushed by eternity, at wills our thoughts as screaming; to witness thunder, that second in time, where brains merged with emptiness: that blank infusion; our temples void; our debts erased through justice: those cultic eyes; that picture of essence; our physical definitions. (It comes to life, this joy your name, this pain our trail; as living cultures, a halo as an anchor, as orison derives from souls; that inner zeal, while born to arcs, sitting, pitted in sentiments: our relished scarves, our immortal handkerchiefs, our melody atop our cries; where love is richness, an inner rapture, to imagine your smile: our reaching words; our mothers’ hearts; our intentions going awry: if but to live, a flower to a vase, our petals pruned; that typical fervor, as heated adrift, where flames become intrusive: our cabinet souls, our taste of justice, our crushing impacts—where snails morph, into feverish giants, indebted to illumination); indeed, a daughter, running through vineyards, reading literature; as more to yearn, while more to capture, floating through tenderness; our treasured affections, as wresting devotion, at tales such contradiction: our wailing developments; our psychic religions, those tugging light-sockets; to know your heart, that cryptic museum, at treasures to utter, “I love you.”     

Fence Holes

I’ve tried acrobatics, laughing insanely, musing by tyrannies; insomuch, as adventure, running from Freyja, aloof a mirror and tribal; such renowned essence, kissing at seas, thrust by prophetic illusions; as never our graves, by mere a thought, at wonders this ecliptic paradise. I shimmy emotions, at stealth such reflection, a bit batty our convictions; to float by ethics, at wars our morals, if just to listen: this battle of blue jays; this fertile delusion; to capture a stolen glimpse—at hours passing, our minds at Beijing, such a glorious wedding; or more to fancies, one day a legend, as never again those soft tentacles: while such is fleeting; this justice by prose; our subtle irritations; as, nevertheless, this settled security, thereto, that face his dreams.  Probing timidity, if ever it counted, while never it was; as living by rites, as sudden delusion, while, nevertheless, a body was forming: (so blessed our souls that believe without seeing): that sea-lion’s bones; our aquatic fixtures; this ravishing by thoughts something so precious—as romantic souls, our heart’s allure, fumbling through blueprints: those silken worms; as slithering our pages; at sudden to morph into speaking thoughts; but more to sanity, advised to flee, by something internal: our cotton passions; our goblin valleys; our mirrors as glass antiques—to remember his soul, as, nevertheless, such riveting friction—by mere expression, our stature to winds, accused of picklock’n hells.  Our likeness to flames, as distinct and steady, this man unable to speak: that deep frustration, so many years our calibers, that brilliant friend; as calming his heart, tangled at mass, this portfolio of mental caverns: our swelling gusts; that elegant tear; our caresses by tranquility; to live introspection, angered by circumstance, too aloof to love; this crying fancy, as never by participation, some type of ache our spirits.  It tickles to ponder, as never again, prying into scripture; this tempest of thieves; or harpoons of savagery; where thoughts were deliberate: this gentle creature; as crafty as lights; a bit too skilled our lives—spinning at rapture, nibbling catnip, seated by intoxication; that blue-moon-thunder, that jasper sun, our minds at ecstasy—to live as cursed, by forces to maneuver, living out black magic; as never to sentence, this achy delusion, while breathing tenderly: our treks to lemon-pains; our days to thoughts; our hearts to winds: as infused through grayness, at deep admirations, while balanced to realize cadence; that soft passion, at electric gates, gripping through fence holes.

Silence, Love

Silence the killer. Silence the healer. Silence a twofold hero. (I evaporated, a bit captivated, at length a dead man: a pail of gnats; that straining eye; that plaque screaming alienation—as dreamed a crib, that little girl, as never such reach; that fretting intimacy; that green siren; our needs for physicians: those broken lanterns; those shifty moods; as repeating names: our cosmic vessels, purified in sins, our horrors on repeat: to ask for mercy, our minds as tentacles, while cleaving to treacheries. I saw her eyes, as filled with fear, hiding behind mother; to ask of treason, this song our daughter, to lose his intelligence: forsook to crime, streaming by demons, at mercy to curse self: (that purple ball; that green snake; that fluffy pillow; those new habits; our daughters taught; that man those dreams our screams). It must come, that furious fever, as driven to forgive. I lost a legacy, to gain a fortune, struggling those middle grounds: our cymbals clanging; that violent noise; this vision breaking insanity; to see it shatter, those crawling fragments, our sores too abrasive for concealing: that mystic at woes; that yogi aflight; our terrors seeping into infant souls: as conscious rivers, and oh for eyes, as to water suddenly). It’s pitted deeply, this insidious omen, to remember that tender caress: our children crying, or asking about others, to infuse a child with gorgeous—that achy fire, as tersely distraught, our children calling others, “Father.” It comes as hell, this deep distress, “It’s best he stays away”: as more to needs, while attempting sanity, puffing and passing along our weekend shores: that cyan liquid, to cast his eyes, a bit too confused while he drinks: that song’s excursion, graffiti to our ships, our music traipsing neurotransmitters—to inhale deaths, a cigar for a second, and Hozier for a mood shift. (I’m soon to drift, as imagined our souls, asking that love be told by faces: this ink; this drunken sin; our walls pleading forgiveness: as inner mechanics; that incantation; while wailing through mirrors: our crooked traces; our infant daughters; to have left with ease. It never happened, this whiff called love, while producing, nonetheless: that pale complexion; those reckless eyes; those nails that flesh those yelps—as screaming by mercies, at love but a few, while remembering unto graves: that transmigration, seated a lover’s psyche, while refusing to impress a psych: this maverick soul, peering at terrors, remembering this delicate trek: to tiptoe shadows; or forget to breathe; as, notwithstanding, she tears out, “Breathe”). It was love; it had to be; it had to be gentle: while crying forever, and pausing for laughter, a bit maniacal: those fractured glances; that refusal to get high; our needs to believe in perfection: to see it crumble; our arms so empty; but filled with lovers: if but to life, to rinse our souls, to forgive we ever loved; that cold-dark-earth, at birth a sinner, as we accept doctrine; that place of purgatory, as baptized for love, that sparrow seated with hummingbirds; as more to seeing, this velvet invention, acclaimed for healing: our hopes by lateness; our dreams by fancies; our temperaments as deathly serious: a bit too stern, our wants to appease, our suitors as giving us mad-science.  I must relax, as sinning a coin, flipping as seeing pirates: that deep mystic; that torn sentence; our lives merging—to feel our feelings; to stress through hearts; something so remote our shrills: where love is plaid, and sadly insane, but often to forming dynasties.                 

Making Love Work

While to feel love, as abused to feel love, carried into swamplands—this gray dream, lasting but tasting, such fever as fevers—that fluorescent soul, pardoned for love, entrenched by fevers; our tatted spines, our forearms bleeding, our wrists engraved—to sense by deaths, our dragonfly wails, looking at sky-rivers—to shift with rhinos, trekking deserts, abased that crowing flush. I never lived, such addiction to sin, pierced by fiery tendons: our marsh inflated; our lakes by trails; our faults plucking at membranes. I never died, a vest of samsara, breaking glass nearing flame: our shells as love, by terrors our woes, flipping with tales our dolphins. Those captive souls, leering at gestures, forsook to passions; as falling concrete, seeping into asphalt, alive that fire of fears; to trespass lights, traveling squirrels, a bit groundless by falcons; this tugging shadow, afar, so close and running—as shattered thieves, our princely angel, that cherub by cigars. I’m feeling shallow—as to adore such fragrance, a bit frightened of old age: our waves as pausing; those countries as bawling; our hours as increments of time; to love as sickness, made shy about beauty, incurring such pressure to explode. We see for paintings, this angry thread, our hearts pulsating excitement; where meerkats dance, our immortal portrait, thrown by flesh as dying roses: that beeping ache; our rising scent; as living our candid television—this channel of souls, adrift a star, mulct from our mainstream sinners. We knitted pleasures, a pair of Woks, our shrimps and rice; this image our days, so deep our texture, prepared this love.         

Colorful Marbles

We speak freedom, by eclectic methods, dispensing joys; this kinetic force, our electrical wires, our minds to winds that gentle touch; as laughing rites, a bit to bent textures, alert enough to sin: this grin seeping; that magic wailing; our hearts to silent sectors—to love a swan, at gears to perform, while harnessed by violence; this achy bliss, as torn to measures, while lions claim participation; this evil truth, our soothsaying waves, this woman by heights a distant touch: our miracle minds, as adjusted sorely, craving by rivers that angel’s appearance: if but for love, this voice waning, our planets by axis distorted…to long at visions, feeling for faces, our fire at bones; to die forever, as to live forever, while our cycles churn dysfunction…those saving graces, that table in class, that wrenching chalkboard; as teachers wail, those nights to sipping, or plain passing out: our dreary yards, plagued by weeds, our pillows fraught with spittle: if be it life, this reading of thoughts, ever at a neighbor’s audition: our smiling captures; our forgetting of self; that second to barbeque joys—as pudding to babes, or catnip to kittens, that greyhound guarding nothing; as music, my Love, or treasures our hearts, at mystical threads with paint.  

We tear through sadness. We feel for frequencies. We highlight imperfections. (This silent acclaim, as forced to capture perfections, while, nonetheless, others are quite raggedy: our tragic explosions, peering at forgiveness, where such has become a farce: our infants crying; our voices idling; our arks giving way: if but perfection, this inner theme, as never to explore humans: this wealth of apricots; that blueberry jam; those plums shushed for excavation; as crying for love, at years for love, as to find that mirror screaming about love; where swans soar, as captured in space, floating upon a velvet carpet: this knitted person, as flipping meditations, while our souls harvest injustice. It comes this way, as polishing madness, where all must agree—as if time was gentle, to ignore the unseen, while souls incur wounds screeching for stitches. Where walls are grounded, we acquire wrecking balls, or circle Jericho for seven days; as if to lights, where souls are vivid, while deep in seclusion; to swarm with love, or carried afar, peering at geese; to imagine life, void of reason, where all caters to sternness).    

Caveat: Life is quite ironic. We give examples while never examining that we give examples. Those same examples become a part of our lives. I know for four generations of souls that felt it necessary to break free. What is this curse, and how can we avoid giving shifty examples: self included; for this is living; our days to attempting to hold things together perfectly. 

Sparrows Resound

It morphs softly, that wellic cry, at satori with vengeance—to know his rivals, this casual war, as sore effective at fields.  We love enough, as never that more, a fire dissociative; to mourn mirrors, or ignore mirrors, at treasures to disrupt that inner cycle: those cloudy herbs; that burning flame; while detached that feeling, It goes no higher. We destroy countries, awaiting our praise, by measures to science dysfunctional. We crave violence, as perfect a dream, refusing to accept our rubrics. It’s cold by journey, as iron interrupts wind—smelted by actions; as, nevertheless, those precious impressions, by association moving backwards; else to slavery, as Just because, or suffer by angst that inner audit—to examine thoughts, albeit, those pillars, so personal our claims; where mothers perish, while fathers perish, this thing of Never us!  I see a rubric, as selfish an ark, at this game we call pretend: our inner pretenses; our stubborn hubris; where life is forced to recant—that break in souls, as never a voice, this game of pacification: our inner persons; those cruel jabs; or lights to urns that we must ignore: that violent outlash; as to hit but clear of responsibility; as suffering made cordial—that moody shift, that countenance screaming, a child’s need to tend to adults. Oh for flowers, and blue-buttered cookies, and 7up soda pop; where seconds are disguised, a pair of hummingbirds, or a group of kids philosophizing: that mental activity, our rooms to smoke, our years at playing pretend; to ask for normality, this touch we can’t feel, while, nonetheless, required to effuse emotions. I’m sick and tired; and I strain to see it; this constant reminder; as sore affected, flipping through pages, pausing to recite a psalm: a flippant air, or pure compassion, this splay of affections. I hoped for normal, as claimed for senses, while equipped to guide a swan: that inner arrow, our points at flame, as never for safety. Oh as paranoid, scraping at rearview(s), reaching for that sparrow: nibbling cold facts, a bit metaphysical, thinking, A mother’s sadness is more important. It comes that way, while filtering emotions, required as men to cater to love; as scriptural dictates, or compassionate mercies, while moving through this vest of logistics: our revving mechanics, rebuked for tears, while, nonetheless, nothing changes. (I sound dreary, as disgruntle with hope, while at sales through theologians; as seeping higher, to fly lower, at wars with appropriateness; as, thereupon, this war with Hobbes, or forbidden Nietzsche, our minds to defining human activity; as cursed to behave, or blessed to behave, peering at this flooded cup—and sensing a gulf, where coffee stains, as grapes mourn, while affection becomes a short excursion. We say things, agaze’d by children, knitting by grace our rockets: that fluffy gingerbread; that tangy lemonade; our strawberry icing: if but to live, at tears something precious, at sores that name; where love was passion, as eyes would water, a man so hurt he fails to feel; but love was danger, sipping Dr. Pepper, nibbling Hi-Chew Sours).  Be free, Love; sing softly, Love; protect, Love.     

Molasses

It becomes sullen, this elated feeling, at mental conferences; to see day-stars, to orbit memories, to exclude naught: that inner Frankenstein; that inner Dickinson; that paranoid Greene: if but to life, that heart-professor, as included to riches, our partners wary of long-distance; to conjure by lots, this pail of salt, while needing closure; as touched as mystics, our orientations, a treasure buried at resentments: our medieval gaits; to perish our gates; such religious furry: that graphic bar, aside a soul, peering at psychic eyes; to shed a tear, three minutes a psych, as preparing by countenance: our terrific scars, at dreams for militias, this vest of immortal balance. I lost a friend, as losing existence, while dreaded that flaming return; as born through deaths, a father to struggles, our mothers but casualties; to give spirit-hearts, by treasured dungeons, retrieving a fist filled with hopes: that crooked pavement, as blurry a star, stumbling upon artists. It could be gentle, if birds sprinkled, that touch of cherub-dust: this thick bark, refusing his ax, that family refuses God; insofar, as momentum, insofar, as Passion—this aloof nature piecing Christ. I love for songs, a sword for tribal, by piecemeal unspoken affections; as detrimental, if soaring a curse, where emotions delude our otherworld sanities; to feel it slipping, as replaced with fusions, as, nonetheless, a cherished vessel. I’m deeply curious, this thing of half-humans, aloft by terrors that forte of darkness: by reaching souls, this elitist cult, by Hippocratic Oath: this feature in minds; our minds in personalities; our personalities shift universal currents: as more a dream, unless esoteric, by measure a flight by stallion forces. I saw a mare, while striking a cigar, at sudden, to feel a mist; wherewith, were feelings, as devastated by sorrow, to picture something gentle: our brains to flare; our dreams as ghosts; our daughters as perusing all things: that furious fire, as drenched in concerns; while, nonetheless, this aching churns: that musical cross; that inner mass; this protestant vying for experience; as morphing currents, while tugging caches, at reach to explain a serious dilemma; hereto, by forces, this casual downstream, as one sits to pondering a particular expression. It shall come, by driven that chase, revealed as pendulums: that dirge as flutes; those flutes as feelings; those feelings as wings; to express concentration, as faced by currents, while adrift this world of energies: our questions come, by suffocated truths, while admonishing religious secrets: this pounding mind; that ink-filled migraine; those sparks to arts as supernatural; to bend with winds, afflux a hellish spin, at mercies that kindness didn’t come: that furious feeling, as living in accordance, while trampled as stippled justice; but love to science, as love to religion, if both are exhausted for aiding others: this life of saints, adjusted by convictions, as if to perish knocking upon doors: our sagic swans; our swamic sons; our love to flurries: if but to breathe, as included upon a gift, a bit reckless to spread molasses.