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.
