It
should be gentle, a tale aggressive, by far an inner rash; this plight of
passions, too cold to feel, as too warm for emotions; at much a flurry,
fiddling orange bangs, knitting a jasmine rug: our introduction, accustomed to
deviations, at pleasures to muse by imagination: that evil woman, protecting
canvases, muted but living as societies: that Celtic sword; our European
allies; our terrors in Africa; to perish sanctions, while running as refugees, this
woman embedded his senses; to speak Obama, as if so foreign, while admiring
Trump: this life of ironies, as perusing satin sheets, peering at long legs:
that inner magic; that tragic lose; our wilderness as caves parallel. We call
it life, this strange television, amused by chaos: to have that feeling, as if
living that feeling, while others pursue serenity. It comes as vicious, this
verbal campaign, while eyes are resting; that plank in souls; that tasty
grasshopper; our gourmet manna: this squid of minds, enriched by quail, shivers
as kneeling by riverbeds: that sightly motion, as ghosts his petroglyphs, our
treasures as pantomime: if but to breathe, this elegant nightmare, as one too
resolved to love: if only by cadenza, those faraway vocals, trekking his mental
shrine; as quick to cherish, while offended deeply, this thing resulting by
expectations: that shifty mood; that trenchant mind; those increments for
motions; as craved a troll, as never to live, trembling at mystic thunder: this
cryptic lipstick, as haunting his hours, alive that second to mirrors: to see
it blink, at four dimensions, his mind traveling hospitals; to meet with
psychs, a panel of eight, all a bit disappointed: this music in men; our
thinking agents; this woman as scholarship; insomuch, our tendons, gripping
into carpets, our tropes speaking of souls: that famous carpenter; that myriad
of huts; this feeling a bit possessed: if be it for rules, we rival as
ethicists, compiling a series of ought(s);
where vandals shiver, our tenors shifting, at tares those deserts those
operas: to touch by chase, as a major failing, but figured as using our base of
all things; that miracle voice, as giving redemption, while at wars with fiats:
those chains explosive, as recruiting pheasants, a ferret pawing his palm; that
symbol to live, as one so simple, a bit intrigued with Hippies: that growing
fashion, while deeply selfish, as torn to live by pleasures: this inner aria,
that vocal credenza, this memoir bleeding emotions; to capture a glimpse,
dangling from sky-trees, as pash this rising whirlwind; as, nevertheless, to
unlatch a ghost, while cleaving to sanity, our richness seeping into galaxies:
that charming lecture, as so distant a scar, where features amount to that
outer configuration; that bright glow, as rooted in mystics, while at treasures
to conceal divinity; as, wherefrom, this plague of souls, while screaming at
normality: this ball by lakes; that pavement of balloons; that poetess reading
into our silences: that return of lambs; agaze by Anthony Hopkins; at wonder of
our impeachments: that low echo; that white noise; our minds courting our
scaffoldings; at prose with pliers, aloof to Sophia, for an overseer
investigates all things; as, notwithstanding, this pash of titles, as forgiving
behavior; where mother sung, a maniac to a psych, accused of substance
awareness; this slight to souls, as ecstatic deeply, but a spirit at affections
for ambrosia; that silent woman, as crying his life, by mere a torment; as,
thereupon, so many bars, a rare button to ponds—while more to lights, that
unspoken love, as cheering for a man’s success—this grievous heart-trail, as
scales, a night-ache, our feathers but beige ambivalence; to capture a sphinx,
amused to die, at airs a phoenix-sky.
