I love
us, some sorted infection, while purely oblivious; that human angst, at faces
to rivers, at skies to deaths; this breath he lived, this mountain’s eye, this
fallen prophet; to exchange wishes, this typical response, failing pillow talk;
as graphed dearly, abroad blueprints, this voice-sky at wars. I craved as
sickness, alive by unphysicals, at terrors this metaphysical: that torn
predicament, to adore as forbidden, this grief seeping soul-ward. You see us
afraid, as caged in violence, our mothers as rigged falcons: that brisk
control; those fevered hells; this mission as nearly congested; where psychs
chatter, this morbid psychology, that twist to enjoy companies: if but a life,
at deaths a soldier, at wars a captive; as such to beauties, that fabulous woman,
so churned at mercies. I’m falling justice, this incumbent treasure, and while
to carry this hellish torment: wherewith, are gray eyes, embedded tortures,
this vex as chastisements: to turn a tornado, as deep a womb, forbidden from
claiming love—this phoenix rising, this lethal lastness, to disappear yenning
for infinities. I love us, as retreating afar, if but to whisper, “We died”; as
carrying fuel, this space of horrors, while affectionate that first distortion;
to live it lively, as engines for pressure, this frantic—“I love him”: if be it
his mind, as grinding deaths, this churn of lights our strengths; where mother
seethes, as father grieves, this want for our daughters’ perfection: that
flaming gent; those finite curses; that image as leaping from magazines; as
comes this life, our daughters to graves, if be it this needs to obey. I crank
a clock, at countless woes, a bit too imperfect; while reading Dante, this
literary canto, afflux a portrait of Dr. King; where music morphs, as measured
devices—those deadliest deeds. It came to heart—our mystical madness, as more
this feeling of absence: to touch and taste and hear and see and smell and
embrace; this sheer distortion, where life is events, while predicated upon
feelings: this tugging and pulling and seething and grieving as time
shatters—this place as first days, arranged as estrangements, a furious fire. I
love us at thoughts, while to mourn such thoughts, a child pleading for
securities: this turn of tables, to curse his heart, while pleading spirits: if
but to live, this icing of tares, where weeds become solemn friends; but this
is wealth, that inner kef, suggested as pure dementia; to claim for love, this
lost conversation, while pleading for distance: it comes with hells, afforded
this glory, at times to want for immortalities; insofar, as having love, to
discard love, as infected by our newest love; this achy killing, as abrasive
music, so dear to ride that currency: those frequent figments; that improper
odor; that sign by such as odor: to die as living, this incredible symbol,
while at oceans to retreat by love.
