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.