Some
at times see; this fabulous melancholy; that hawking wind; as left to life, or
bidding insanity, while measured by dementia. We seek it losing, while to
afford deaths, as becoming falcons; to storm electric, our archeries at globes,
a bit senseless to pains; at deep a rant, this chant of thieves, our eyes
fluttering sorrows. We promise life, oblivious to participation, failing to
demand participation; at rich jealousies, as envied a scar, this core by
anxieties; to reach immortals, that angry song, our inverted wings: that drench
of chaos; that sin we crave; those nights at chest-wars: if agony bleeds, our
mystics grieve, afflux a yogi’s trombone: that ferocious music, as bleached in
righteousness, affected as changed seeking captures: that trenchant demon, as poured
into brains, our childhoods effacing normalities. I took to life, an inner
firebird, an outer novice—enriched with hatred, as against his nature, this
flux of pure resistance—to morph a product, some sort of narcotic, dangling by
transmitters; as died her heart, at beds with vengeance, losing this capacity
to mourn—as loved by scars, to uproot pride, our dignities trashed in dungeons:
our dying mothers, at treasures our daughters, as our children are oblivious;
to see an angel, or an angry woman, whereto, are treacherous graves; as such to
gardens, our exotic flowers, to wipe at tears with petals: that muddy moisture;
that lithic heartcave; our tulips hanging by skies; as nibbling grapes, seated
in wines, at chance a fit of atrocities: our tempos to blades, as trekking
meadows, some-tier that fathom to brains; to mime a verse, as cursed to breaths,
while addicted this life of sparrows: our tragic cries; our wise intuition; our
knowing by mirrors: this cache as self, to vet our neighbors, that pagan
interrogation. (I thought to majesty; at
base a pigeon; while ignoring a present force: this chasing distance, while
demonizing experience, as if distance proffered serenity. I return with
vengeance, as secluded a mental alley, at churns through crowds that light: but
fevers to live; that pulling of chi; a series of magnetic vicissitudes—as such,
a drilling, that terrible undulation, this crane aching hearts; to lose while
gaining, this beautiful travesty, as seated in riddles; where love conjures,
while pursuing forces, as to have discarded resistance: that easy path, as
fooled in sanctuaries, that belief for conquers). We see voices, those animate
objects, those primal elements; while cured a touch, this thing rising, to
realize this infinite beginning: by aches a pistol, at raptures a bullet, while
killing something to give it life: that furious tapestry; those pleated
insights; our telic designs. I love us flying, at hearts that cadence, where
newness burned into character: that sentient essence; that probing vine; our
figs by tastes our intoxications; where fevers ruptured, while beauty inclined,
as joys purified by acts of agony: this living as sources, our course to
feathers, alert for restless.
