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.
