At Counting His Deaths

Hello, Love—these cosmic channels, at stars with grandma—that furious fuse, our mothers to galaxies, our fathers near vomiting—as drowning by feelings, while killed a soul, to flex by beauty that smile: pure Peruvian, while a friend maneuvers, at causes, to feel a torrent of guilt—as lived insanity, to balance by graphs, our music dangling by wires. I love by heartbeats, this woman an illusion, where feelings fail to grasp reality—that compass grieving, as deep by marsh, to come to chlorine; this inner dial, at phoning a myth, a bit too cagey but whelmed asunder—if but to fly, our eyes to rituals, this gestalt majesty: that fatal psych, as more a remembrance, as sensing mother—by tiers a galaxy, to remove that feeling, at once, to become angry; indeed, to mysteries, a session by twenty minutes, to fill an inner zero—those giraffes singing, that elephant to father, those horses standing in majesty—to carve his brains, as senseless a fuse, this woman too gorgeous for guitars: as surfing by skates, to ollie by dimensions, at wonders as no one lives: this cold escape, as scraping reality, to fence a turn for new technology: that genius poetess, as more to Sophia, to sense this deep infraction—where religion rules, that inner theologian, to come to grips lost in sensations: that crazed mother, those hazel dreams, that body racing into torments—to adjust by rekindles, a candle flickering, that woman a mere menace—if but to die, this man watching, at tears to realize another sees—as more a feeling, to destroy vexation, while curbed a churn at silence. I’m feeling graphic, as at love for Brimhall, by currents to sense a lethal assassin—while adrift through Smith, this page a bit gregarious, to flourish a second by eternity—that tense bleeding, that friend dying, our dreams coming to fruition—as courted a diamond, to remember a Princess, as if time was demented; but hell to feelings, as killed a soul, peering at a grandfather clock—to rotate violence, this psych his tribunal, that overseer cringing—or more that therapist, to dine by vengeance, for tongues slip into abysses: if but a riddle, this sphinx on highs, to trip by cadence, peering at hieroglyphs. I’m sipping for falling, at love a swan, at membrance Chinese rice—where life was gentle, as ignoring divisions, to hear that word—that pregnant mother, those long goodbyes, this feeling to die that currency: if but to scream, this woman a mystic, as dividing his soul—where a yogi monitors, as floored a feeling, to realize this man is demented—that flurry through time, to peer at hundreds, while a bag flurried an infection. I’m silent love, as crazed a soul, to pause this second: [(What for love, to have that woman, while she returns to Love; or more to captures, this infuriating ache, to become a torrent nonchalant—while more to violence, this passive aggression, where memories mean inflation. I could to perish, as born to Love, while aches tear into injustice: that delirious notion, where one would die, as if to love a man’s woman—where distortion becomes extortion, while channeled this grandmother’s Divinity. I climb to perish, at tops with bosses, as infused a scream—to perish a psych, this cold excursion, where another becomes human).] I churn at daybreak, to mourn come noon, aloof but hectic our swan’s dimension—as bent a comma, to flee this woman, while at best held captive.  I loved a song, with deep regrets, to flourish through Alicia Keys—that graphic nuance, as once to love, while hate flourishes our mountain—that thin line, as amused to die, at flurries to administer a greeting card—where mother warns, this crossing of mazes, to believe I’ll never know us as that culture. [(It comes with vengeance, to love our Princess, while cringing that he died—that inner grandmother, our outer grandfather, that woman watching as passing judgments—to course through life, as neither a sound, while feeling this languishing tug: that tie to silence, to realize secrets, while some function all the same—as never a man, to love a scar, while jewels are scattered afar; but hell to justice, while more to dying, to become a psych’s project)].

Nervousness

I’m so antsy, bought by illness, occasioned as a fool—to relate a name, at patience to retreat, while created a loop-web—that blue grass, those chiseled feelings, as introverted a mansion; this livid crisis, to flourish a thump, as energy resounds—that Buddhist notion, those Hindu gods, our monotheism—as swarms a yogi, a fleet of inputs, our datas clashing with human chemistry. I’m so antsy, at feral fantasies, at furious women—that cold shiver, to invert as warmness, this game of reviving sanity—as swimming atmosphere, to bend air-waves, dying for living to finally touch—that mental music, as revealed in temperaments, this genius a teddy-bear for love—as moving crookedly, to reckon such hands, afforded this curse of beauty—as age creeps, slamming our virtues, but a drink to atlas our movie—where mothers perish, as sawn asunder to meet a charming vexation: that cordial art; that wild emission; our pictures becoming vices: that achy portrait; those fiery arms; that length by kef as drowning—where mercy unravels, this Siamese twin, too famish to settle for minutes—as died inclination, this vulnerable feeling, at eyes with intentions—to tug by brains, as retrieving senses, at once, to devastate that loner’s seduction. I’m so antsy, tripping over words, becoming something familiar—as biblic cadence, reversed in color, such passion for eyes he never noticed; that contradiction, as seeing his brains, as opposed to sensing miseries—or passion by joys, revolving around one person, at curses to become a difficult candidate. I’m so antsy, typing for falling, as calling somewhere those inversions—that burgundy sweater, those turquoise jeans, those open toed sandals—adorned in painted toes, as pedicured a miracle, at tremors to sense attraction…this casual hell, as believing in tapestries, our pleats athirst and gasping for flame…that achy nightmare, as never to possess, this entity I must control; that deep secret, as men perish, while women soar a galaxy—to haunt his heart, those nightly pains, to give by temperament that inverted ache—those tides as mellowing, as one shoots a volt, while knees shatter floorboards. I’m so antsy, that nethermost region, to touch by womb and cry—for dyeing his mind, to purloin a feeling, as occasioned a vampire—this passionate other-tense, to reft his soul, at mirrors pointing at perfections—that woman’s wildness, that woman’s shyness, that palm to cheeks adoring our gaze; that amazing time, as floored a genius, to rue so much that summer-fall—this man at tenses, while peering at luxuries, to hit a cave snagging but every jewel: if but to live, an unsated woman, or a baseborn man—as more to dying, a furious dream, as loved our souls, abased for mercy and screaming—where skin becomes blood, as scratching eczema, to picture a sculpted Madonna. I’m so antsy, plus, a frustrated soul, at love he couldn’t win—as ever before, and ever again, or more to silent rivers—that fall to justice, to cherish but an ocean, at fevers carrying his pride—where Selene chances, at feeling infinity, but never for fleeing by hours—our sore return, as to wonder of motion, where every motive is clutching for streams—that beauty youth, as infatuated dearly, our lines becoming harbingers—but never those eyes, as sensing perfection, to touch by aches pursuing moreness—that inner somethingness, as mental fire-webs, to assault a future that feral fling. I’m feeling antsy, to have lost that volt, while we suffer our restraints—as painting pictures, aloof to terrors, while engulfed in our realities: that gorgeous child, that brainy kite, those Legos boxed in a haunted closet—as born to feel, where feelings are contained, while, nevertheless, Logos cleaves to its very likeness: our lavish passions, as laved in emotions, while engraved upon a ceiling fan; that pure rotation, as shifting our arcs, to remember it felt ecstatic.

Dear Family

We perish this vision alive our curse as forced to survive; therewith, are terrible abrasions, as to suffer by Christ, as long to live this atypical dysfunction: that hectic blender; our clashes with perceptions; our mothers despising our decisions—to crank our souls, as wretched would live, aglow a terminal afar a curse; this face in mirrors, as private counsel, to mourn those years ramped through cities: those iron bars; that welkin substance; this liquor conveying his sober character; where deaths were lightning, that grandfather at rivalries, our grandmothers spewing venom—while despising one, as by preference that other, a bit to glowing electricity. It comes by rivers, this hell we’ve created, at tender mercies evoking The Ghost. I know for power, but what for decency, or moreover, that gravid recognition that alerts us to: If it wasn’t for God, death would have swallowed me up? This valley of colors; those bleeding ears; that voice sharing its discontent; where mother grips a grudge, while father relinquishes justice, insofar, those mental rooms. If death is glory, we perish: If death is rebirth, we fly; indeed, to miseries, our mothers ramped through rehabs—our fathers amuck by uncouth trainings—where parents die, while cleaving and clutching and regurgitating secretes—to ignore inconsistencies, while craving completion, a bit ambivalent concerning that christic tribunal; but more to daughters, at deaths for glory, holding for dying a wealth of shame—where urns speak, as awaiting our arrival, as a swan empathizes with her mentor: those hazel dreams, as confused an inch, while too strong to claim forgiveness: this gated Lazarus; this inner mouthpiece; our words to shivers as electric a private occurrence. We could to mercy, as so far gone, our multiplication 7x70 per day: this deep vexation, as cried our inner lagoon, while puffing Cuban cigars: that myth with time; our achy bones; our dreams where control intoxicates: that beige rose; that cap by portraits; that living room resounding some type of innocence: to hold by grace, while dying by rules, this passage through inner cities—this turn for love, as reminded we must repent, as turning from that exact sin; else, to mischief, this psychical ghost, while feeling abased: that reprobate myth, as accursed a scar, while traveling as seated churning through Scriptures. We can’t but breathe, while afflicting others, where karma sails about a dozen inclinations: that cry aloud; that mother caressing our hearts; our fathers to thoughts as what was omitted; but this is life, too many abrasions, while seeking to forgive our reflection. I must apologize—this living of lots, a bit careful to divorce a picture perfect position; for theologically, it uproots God: as a perfect person, I need nothing; as an imperfect person, I desire communion outlined in mercy; as, nevertheless, I’m a foul creature, afflicted with split genetics, while mourning those years to chaos: wherewith, comes regret; a tattered conscience; plus, an ancient disposition, which is rooted in confliction—that space in minds, reflecting upon an image, to see but a freckle pitted in mirrors—as coming to justice, while maintaining distance, to give this essence in which we desire: that heartfelt denial, while screaming at curtains, insofar, as flickering at an image which causes debasement; indeed, I regret a demon’s trail, as familiar with millions, while at wars those forces disrupting hearts; furthermore, I regret this lack of wisdom, which permitted dysfunction.     

Unyielding Connections

I sense images, gently to breathe, a daughter by gavels—to claim life, so low an anchor, at terrors to love; such complication, our rites as fusions, to bleed acidic sweat: that casual torture, as awakened that moment, by presence a killing ache—where silence appears, that slight so emphatic, to rearrange a torpedo; as lived our nights, by sweltering clauses, to panic at that sudden question; such as gladiators, that warm infusion, to feel by mystic wells—that mother teasing, a garden of patience, while tilling our panicky soil—where arts are love, insomuch, as death, to vow this unyielding union: that cold valley, as trekking with silence, to arrive by eye-veins. I sense images, by welkin wells, our cultures merging beauty: that aesthetic grin; that feature by cues; this person that can’t be as sameness: that chilly wind, by a private room, as to open windows—by setting free, that ladybug spirit, as ceilings rattle; indeed, by images, accustomed to phantoms, at arrival to witness a ghost grieving: that disappearance, as caught off guard, or deliberate an intervention; as known by name, to shift that inner person, accursed so long it becomes public: those careful thoughts; that angelic wonder; such as persons to inherit fire: this intricate shovel, as digging his brain, at present moment, a bit uneasy—to abort vengeance, as lived that soul, while whispering at grandma. I’m sensing breath, one of but a dozen methods, insofar, as manipulating energies: this inner chaos, as outer reasoning, while inverting his heartbeat; to fly to grace, a coat of LED fleece, to retreat at exhaustion—that treasure as skating, by minds an art, painting for arising through skin. I’m grabbing mind-beats, aloofly intimate, at wails, that inner sound—to cage as fleeting, this breath as depth, to arrive to self sparking a clove—where passion’s harnessed, while growing and budding, so charged by lights: that senseless ache; that profound effusion; our days a tell-sign—where wires cross, to ponder existence, while a name slips into focus.    

Hi Love

We doctor life, aborted to deaths, as infused a dream—to scream by mother, our knees bruised, as she kisses our lesions. I cried affection, to perish amore, this wound bleeding his aches; that facial distance, as close a scar, to reflex his doubts—as abrasions that curse, affixed to perfection, fleeing from rehab—as deep conviction, to ask through portals, as one dances that chant. I ache a tear, as so intimate a diamond, to become that lethal monster—as breaking his soul, to feel ecstatic, our grandparents cringing: if but to die, as death was cool, this living by catastrophes;—I’d blink thrice, headed for Kansas, or more those show-me states. I long a scar, to meet a queen, too far gone for justice: that magnet heart, that fatal grin, those treasures grieving our pains; where love was magic, as attached a year, to fear commitment; as cried a wolf, or more leviathan, while our country suffered by ignorance; to come to lights, a pagan as a dream, our abortion by existence: that angry host, as seeping into madness, occasioned by terrors; to ache a swan, as seeping into spirits, to realize many have joined—this pleat of mystics, as driven through voices, to admire by cadence: this wealth as filthy; our antics as abusive; this ore a dynasty—where daughters flee, as running through deserts, to meet that graphic Ghost. It came with hell, as never for chorus, while fun was pure; where mother shook, as breaking fences, lost and dead at transference; while often it speaks, this place of selfishness, as speaking in volumes: that tremendous knowledge, as performed in vacuums, while territories ravish existence: that current winking, that mother crying, that space as impure wisdom—it comes with crime, sheathed in blankets, where father appears a solid voice: that steep training, to know by life, while mother sutures confidence. We need faith, as inflamed our senses, to drive a baseball—where cavalry bleeds, this feeling of persons, as too far deluded; while, nevertheless, that other pleat, standing against definitions—that fixation, to remove his brains, while feeling immortal—this tat as grieving, that mother as seething, those tales as accurate—to die his life, accustomed to warfare, as born to battles—where mother was god, this intolerant position, by wits acquired through street-life. It could to die; or it could to live; as advised through prayer. [(I panic mother, for welkin misery, while appealing to grandma—that fallen soul, accorded a kiss, while entering heaven; this vex of strengths, as cursed to flee, while running through dungeons)]. I ask for mercy, this blessing as bleeding, our affects to torture our verses—where pain is joy, as joy is pain, for one visits so infrequently: to build a fortress, this ritual of castles, to amuse that paradoxical mansion—as carried a cup, to administer a guillotine, this vex to prepare a dove; indeed, a curse, to move by measures, as lived infinity—that hex of souls, as coming to return, a bit absent of our last life; whereto, this deep aversion, to sense by intuition, this ‘thing’ as devoid—our cultic brains, this flooded gap, our music at tears with justice; to flex a million, while spending immortality, while scratching our eyelids. I’ll take to passions, as lived our fathers, to emote through pain a casual disposition: that psych as livid, that moon as grieving, our sun as flamboyant—to scream a dream, to wonder control, while wailing about our lives—to love a swan, a seven year abrasion, where affection was oh so plural. [(It could be death, for much a dead soul, while faith has won a kingdom: that immortal church, as a curse evolves, while aliens are deemed by anathema; as split in currents, this fuse as living, as one indebted)].   

I Love The Person In You

I lapse into confusion, this frantic bruise, to see those eyes—as curbed a villain, so gracious a million, to feel for purpose as driven—this liquid heart, as ruined a friend, to amuse a billion suspects. We court silence, as to infringe passions, while accustomed to dying; that miracle suspected, this house as filthy, our clothes sprawled upon couches—that easy-chair gossiping, that music as riddled, our days seeking for clarity—to adjust a current, as burning that symbol, our orchestra affected that woman; as coming fluids, immersed in three persons, at furies for twain hearts; where mother arose, as playing pretend, those chills beneath skins. I flourish to perish, while sneezing powders, those years running through gardens: that frantic heaving; that gorgeous scar; those psychotic imageries; to affect motion, as effective pleasures, where father grinned insanity. I push a passion, laughing at mirrors, a bit too sane for sanity—at ushers with questions; at priests with presence; at drumbeats by daughters; that tribal ache, to love for mother, as appealing to sanity—that gray fever, that Buddhist anger, our years to adverse calamities—where aunty mourns, as seeing reflections, to come that place of indecisions—this wealth of insight, as garnished his brains, to aflame come mania. I’ve raised a person, this inner aflight, while neglecting a swan; as born to grandparents, too sick for silence, while afforded deep abrasions: that mystic anchor; those florid visions; that ache with Hindus a galaxy in tunes. I heard a psych, to utter a word, while still to liquid spirits. If but to perish, as never to rebirth, we would deprive our legacies—as immortal kings, or galaxy queens, by rites a psych’s infusion. I’d love life, if not for pain, while addicted to rain—that trauma he loved, while embracing mother, those drugs razor’d upon glass tables: those see-through mirrors, as reflecting Rihanna, while professors muse from a distance; this safe excursion, as sensing travail, to come to that barren woman. I love a curse, as sensing a genius, that peril so explained: if but for father, this clock to walls, as heaving vestibules at liturgy: that furious demon, as cold to waters, to laugh by cadent expectations—that place of aches, to sense that face, while amused we loved.

Oh to fly a swan, as to afloat a kite, sipping for nibbling loquats—where mother dies, as laughing those tears, to remember a kind heart: if but to deaths, this fury of passions, our worlds would collapse; indeed, for chants, as ranting his brains, this inner training—to test by chance, as deep in concentration, to arise Hildegard—that mystic art, as arousing frustration, to plead that silence awakens; to hear her volume, by treasure that chorus, to echo a tiny whisper—this space of mercy, as cursed a savage, to embark for justice—that trenchant laugher, as adjusting sin, while crying Christianity. I, too, about laughs, according to outspoken tenets—as immersed a scar, that fabulous woman, to drench sensation—in something lethal, to muse with time, while created a new being: our miraculous brains, as chiseled with grains, while threshed with convicts:

to affect sensations, while living by destiny, where swans drift through graphics: that constant tug, as pulling at riches, where private thought becomes impossible.

[(I adore a soul, too cold to appear, while respecting that dear soul; for death is ritual, while to appear a shadow, as too pure to inflict—that path of villains, where cadence becomes sex, as to evoke a barrier: that achy art, to love by grace, our faces pointing towards the east: if but to perish, as loving our child, while at hells to court sensationalism: that teary banner, as engraved at skies, to cry by remorse: this vision bleeding, our minds to starburst, our flavor screaming, “He must decrease”: if but to fly, as dying this curse, our music exploding in silence)]. 

Sky Swan

I addressed us, attempting securities, while a marksman as mad—this livid life, our terror depraved; our music skipping volume. I heard us, to ponder college life, as needing that feeling; to escape justice, as she cries in agonies, at flux our guitar—where love is ruined, as tainted a soul, while attempting at dignities. I groan in spirit, as alive by deaths, at courage to reside in names: that shivering feeling; to ask through losses; this deep-dish pyramid—as broken a mind, to carry heaviness, while paralleled with abjection: that curb of flowers; that portico of candles; our infatuation with nuances—as dreamed for passions, at births through aging, aloof to strange occurrences. (You’ll watch me, a mere fantast, alert to myriad souls; to feel a thump, as now going blank, to remember that curse; this portal by love, while one stands aloof, at needs to feel that current—if strangely for love, while feeling ecstatic, at tortures those required emphases; but that to battles, as claimed his life, while one intervened—as sensing foul-play, to swim through marsh, as dangling from a mayfly; as back to winning, this magnet to love, as receiving encouragement: to perish by births; to cherish by lights; to soar upon your journeys: that frightening style, as attending Berkeley, or life to travels—our dear travail, our inner prophecy, this is as is has spoken; to claim by force, that individual, while breeding philosophies—to set by example, this thing of growth, while pursuing something by sciences). I feel disturbed, to have lost that comfort, agreeing with travesties; as pure paradox, at jasper-rivers, a lotus as an informer—to sense those eyes, acting out inquisition, attempting to authenticate rumors; as always seen, that one a slant, while perfection is fraught by realities. I realize pain, as one a single existence, as probed by childhood memories—where mother sung, as singing her song, this world her existence; to cater as needing—that feeling as adults, while becoming a confidant. I ran fields, and plucked lemons, while at worries. I flew kites, those fights at winds, to realize worry: that indebted feeling; as carries its glory; this attentive man: indeed, a paradox, to possess southern hospitality, while agreeing to flee, as soon to return—that courage to give, while riding that train, while touring that dormitory. I’ll hold silence; I’ll observe distance; I’ll mourn while praying this allotment: that fable we live, as pointing at winds, while pleading our story; as, nonetheless, this symbol winking, as pure that song—where daughters ransom—that blinking sky, at turns to appreciate likeness; so more to soaring, as afraid to perish, as to perish a dream. 

Ambrosia Poison

I think sightedly, streaming through lights, at senses but lost—this minutia bleeding, our daughters to memories, our mothers steady at ecstasy—to cry at forgiveness, to hurt so steeply, as characters suffer rifts. I dance a mystic, as convicted purely, a trombone to brains—or inner clarinets, afforded one chance to fix life—while moving by dreams, affected and screaming, a turn towards existence—to fabricate joys, as becoming reality, at churns to escape: that pilgrim soul, our aesthetic nightmare, to live our vestibules; whereas, by earth, this cursed breath, at terrors to erase mania—those stern memories, as possessing particles, our fragments affecting existence—to perceive as feelings, this guide-post, allergic to reality: that chiming fool, as deep by love, according to tragedy—our broken wholeness, addicted a Paraclete, racing through omegas—while tortured your sights, infused your brains, as length excavated your aches—to purchase by voice, this manifestation, while grieving our loses; thus, to smell perfume, to imagine your aura, as crawling through pages—to flip a verse, or write a Villanelle, or perish a Sestina—where mother watches, to offer a caveat, while dying a slither such romance. I need rehab or something by measurements, to replace that elevation—as claiming love, to give by problems, this essence fraught with issues—to relive life, those casual eyes, to effuse a cryptic soul. I grasp for words, filtered by passions, to imagine those greener pastures—where souls capture, that outer motion, pitted in jasper dreams—as torn a scarecrow, at shooing crows, while safeguarding corn; therewith, your name, as engraved by silence, to awaken by summons that presence; to live as sickly, affording crayon pleasures, where men torture those breakthroughs; insofar, our tears, buried in years, this entity between us; thence, this musicality, as reaching at seconds, to admire our mirrors: that kleptic smile; that hectic nuance; that image a torrent our souls. We could to fry, or could to fly, while moments distill inhibitions—that attic ache, as cried our terrors, to come to crevices bleeding momentum; therewith, those eyes, or that slender gait, fraught by a particular substance—as screaming at rehab, while guzzling a diamond, appearing to self that image of rain—where father repents, as lived a sinner, a tare as spoken through purgatory; that casual agony, as if to exclaim, this feeling of differences; that is, this looking, as if persons heal, this killing destroying his reflections—by dramatic displays, this inner theater, our stages carved in crimson—that deep abyss, our dungeons as prose, our daughters tugging our hiplines—if but to cherish, this cultic breath, while looking to exchange realities—this fleeting ship, that sail of screams, our mirrors becoming salient: if but to love, those abstract ontic(s), our seraphim(s) amazed by humans—to wail by cadence, as jasmine tulips, our garden articulating our shimmers—that inner wealth, by kef a pattern, to feel for seconds as normal—this infinite high, as becoming immune, to shift through turns sipping a Miller. We know for tears, to have such distance, this ‘thing’ becoming intrusive; or lights to heaven, to enjoy this reality while leering into portals: that famous woman, as becoming immortal, or dying by resurrection—insomuch, our arts, to scribble a number, assigned a designated excursion—to cringe our actions, while bleeding our ecstasy, addicted to feeling as complete. I’d admire brains, as exchanged a liver—to hearts an addendum:—those inner huaraches, that Armani suit, that Versace tie—as dormant dreams, peering at Vera Wang, assessing your sophistication—as torn a scream, stitching Prada, or Coco Channel, assessing your dignity—as giving so little, while giving so much, to have become this segment of justice—that awkward feeling, for time has measured, this need for welkin hells: our Da Vince codes; our Rembrandt inflation; our Pollock attraction—as pure euphoria, or enlightened agonies, as adoring pure poison.  

As Beauty Approaches Darkness

By lights she came as dying a sad dream.

We bore fire this death abreast our wrongs;

to give by life a reason to exclaim:

such treason our breath: such to live our scream;    

encased in silk out-wrung our mental throngs.

By lights she came as dying a sad dream.

Our rivers warm by taste our faces flame;    

to ignite by passion a fatal scar;

to give by life a reason to exclaim—

such passion through fury our mortal seams:

this sinning torn adrift those gored gongs.

By lights she came as dying a sad dream—

as inner combat alike to blue rain—

this tare in men to cry by cadent songs:

to give by life a reason to exclaim—

ajar’d an ocean as found a ruby 

where souls perish, as cherished our bars.

By lights she came as dying a sad dream;

to give by life a reason to exclaim.

Shifts

I meditated Love, found in tornadoes, as inner that volt: to live as persons, scourged by thunder, our hearts as baby rosettes; this ambit of spirituals, to locate by swans, our mental duvets; where response is fire, this interval dimension, while racing to his brains: our cultic vats; our latchet of gambits; those sways as waves to electrify magnetism; as coming to terror, while pleading for trembles, occultured to survive through miseries—our civil pleasantries, as wishing demise, while far that cry for justice: cleansed at intake, a bit revitalized, to assist that determination.

We flame to lights, agaze’d at beauty, to address this arrow for sinning—as living that death, addicted to causality, at forces to immerge as deluded souls. Our swan to miracles, by an unclean world, while set apart as clean souls; to algebra life, leering at fractions, a garland as garnet possibility: if sung by tragedy, I’ll sing our majesty, to live as one losing love—as endearing magic, this new touch of loneness, as realizing while people employ niceties—that game of ownership, this hectic existence, an accumulating interests—where music is brief, as bass is snatched, our voices a dungeon of trebles: that scar broken, our broken as distorted, our problems a manifestation of our inner selves: that bias reality, as living by moods, while forced to argue our perspectives: this cold adventure, while bathed in water, immersed in voltaic calamity: as loved a soul, to distance a soul, at tender wars to disgrace our reflection: this hatred of self, as far that cry, while love becomes vexation.

I felt a shift; that sudden agitation, abandoned to graves—while grasping mercy.

We’re found in deserts, our netlike beings, accustomed to this need for souls—as yelled a lady, “I can’t be alone, despite that fact, I’m healing”; this wild music, racing through experience, filled by years of debris; as claiming love, this curious feeling, our fabrics to flame!

By nebs, our ink dripping, warring an inner dragon; as appealing to joy, but hesitant with joy, but indulging in joys; while something’s innate, as properties to life, trekking this sandy psyche.

Take to flying, as faking most moods, attempting to restore that achy drive; where souls are piths, by morbid cadence, while utter simplicity is hell; that cage between persons, as livid a nightmare, as more is pain, while less is death.

I ache by richness, this hectic reality, while moving through this maze: that arc of lights; that edgy disposition; that calm demeanor—where agitation lives, to sense this reality: we feel by rights to disturb others: that kleptomania; this death concerning rules; this spacing ourselves.

I respect distance, as clearing portals—that need to teach; where human is life, while life is learning, where personal is rarely a factor.    

Mysteries: By Outer or Inner Forces: At Wonders Our Dichotomies

Must it be devoid of human effects in order to be deemed as Divine?

If it comes by humans, do we exclude those parts that we fail to describe?

If we participate in creating what we define as extra-energies does this vitiate Divine beliefs?

Participation: “Return to me and I shall return to you”: “They will do greater things.”

I felt ghosts, or more brains, or arts to life this furious temper—as offsetting balance, this shaded warfare, sickle’d by neurotransmitters—to exhaust this metal, while smelting realities, to arise by another’s enchantment: those chiseled gifts, as perfected with strain, while reaping our godly affections—to die with living, as living by dying, a tare upset that tempest of blankness—where mother cries, as pitted in limbo, while we arise to deliver that soul: this flogging of spirits, or arousal of pains, to tap into particular miseries—as shelving to harness, those medley of forces, by methods to evoke one fatal blast: our hearts to pillars, shivering in ecstasy, as becoming addictive feelings—to have that soul, awakened so soon, over a century of chasing; as sewing jadedness, or threshing madness, by eyes an intimate soul: if but to love, by chase our eternity, arriving too early as fraught by laughter: this gripping cadence; that buoyant rupture; our days at familiarity by newness: those willows bending; those morbid attitudes; our given to love our illness—that faint joy, as smothered by pains, affected with sweltering deserts.  [(We sought deception, so accidentally, as revved as angry wolves—to repeat a habit, while depriving senses, by chance to alter awareness: that candid focus, as tormenting exposure, while deeply concentrated—as affecting persons, by becoming frenzied, to compose by such excellence—where rhetoric prevailed, while receiving formula, to render such enrichment: as never to mirrors, while tapping into forces, to admit there comes by abstract occurrence; to chase that entity, as refusing its dominance, while slight to heart a godly complex: this egregious pain, to want that art, by days three hours of rest—or arts by substance, to claim our mirrors, while divesting those souls that listen; as never to speech, but sheer affectation, to arise by moments a giant)].  It delivers souls, while depriving souls, as caked with petals a blank explanation—to die with souls, as to live immortally, while stippled by partial evaluations: this driven space, to come with time, as never but chance—as driven by chance, equipped with fury, to outwit chance; that torn conundrum, trekking steep terrain, but a berry by hallucinations—or cautious a soul, feasting on fasting, nurtured by human chemistry: deriving here; as adding there; while sentenced to too much information: that love by misery, upon something birthed, while angled at something divine; to know by angst, this vault of volts, while concerned with howling winds; to culture with time, as one emphatic, while subtle this war for monopolies: our aglet souls, as unlocking stars, forced by fevers to reflect: our years to Plato, by waves through Augustine, while at deep amore for Anselm—to finally assert, this element  by aches, to chance by pure involvement—that telic heart, as informed a galaxy, at rites to Jung’s memoirs: while mystics dance, those years to studies, at woes this diversity of tenets; as yogis dine, to wrestle leviathan, our roots depicting human faces—as divine souls, steeped in sciences, a cry from blissful hells.           

Zero To Swan Hearts

I return to zero, but a soul delirious, by aches musing upon dreams—as screamed a nun, to shy from sin, again by glens peering into swans; to mingle his arc, that fevered rush, as becoming distant this cycle: such are signs, this losing by rest, that lethargic gait—to tread his chorus, this living liturgy, accustomed to silent whispers; to assume a dream, by religiosity, seated at a daughter’s windmill; where kids gather, so facetious by wilderness, at play while mother measures—those internal cues, that endless cure, our sentence becoming our joys.  I return to zero, by filming this phantom, this operation of brains.  I shall love an ache; I shall die immortality; I shall seize eternity—this silent vehicle, as vocal by arts, our feelings becoming our rubrics; while swans pillage, those mobile verses, as etching randomly to become intellectual surgeons.  I’d defang pain, if mortal a brain, while seething it recurrence: that encircled agony; that swooning misery; or arts to life this immortal mother—as chiming with wisdom, to ask precise questions, as by force to alter a sullen mood—where phantoms fade, as drifting through currents, to arrive as able arcs: that beautiful dream, as antsy a mind, while stationed in cemented psychologies—to etch a brain, as cold to fires, while such rejuvenates inhibitions—that lemon agony, as purifying wounds, while one becomes molded by experiences.  I’ll give life; I’ll shatter sky-domes; I’ll bleach impurities—while gifted a sinner, as placed in crucibles, while maneuvering through elders—those parental eyes, this dowry of miseries, while gleaning insatiable joys—that man to deaths, that unnoticed shiver, while praying for a sober transition: our achy souls, splattered in public squares, as accounted for dear light—that mystic musing; that yogi calculating; our beings rapid towards interventions—as debating life, to subsist a spirit, at truths by travails—where father watches, as splayed asunder, while at secrets to maintain swanic futures: this place in minds, that classy archive, a vessel by aches scratching her wrist.  At spaces in time, a soul’s abject, by sour innocence; at edges to freedom, this rifting feeling, to sudden upon a breakthrough: this endless cycle, to occupy space, or muse for hours upon a dragonfly: that shift; those wings; that chlorine agitation: if but to harness, this cautious feeling, to appear with time that mirror’s recognition—to dissect by sickle, those aglets about brains, where love is segue.  I return to zero, asearch for zenith, or some sort of in-between—where absence isn’t pain, but more deprivation, while onlookers appeal to begging the question—while stars are forming, our galaxies to appraise, as crazed for this zeal to fly: that locket singing; those trinkets as utilized; our rituals soaring into heart-impressions: to utter love, while stitching love, abrupt by love.     

Love’s Travail

By inking blood, to adore that image, as faces become love—this delicate scar, abused to care, by ironic occurrences.

I saw for mercy, what he couldn’t have—so more those curses; to kiss by joys, this phantasmagoria, so inclined to wake up—that anchor rising, to become affective, by methods of disdain—as casual hells, where knells resound—our bride pitted in offcolored dignities—that love soaring, as cleaving to drunkenness, to fetch for such nectar. I saw for mercy, that trenchant heart, as pensive a dream—to witness nothing, aside that inner maniac—so ruthless for fables—as cried his life, by leaping illusions, to slight by professed love.  I can’t find it; I can’t feel it; I must find it: this deep allure, to panic his words, as this correlation emerges—where death is beauty, as beauty is life, while ever that sore galloping that cadence; to frantic by hearts, as to flutter by brains, where faith arises by frame-ship—that delicate art, to witness configuration, to know that love has run its course: that tender leap, as taking for leads, a camera reposing an image; to capture by glimpse, this immortal wound, by treasures to ache that force: if but delusion, than give us illusion, as so proud to leak realities—that soft harpoon, to welkin a star, where affects render depression—or flat a soul, pleading for fires, while emoting as if to feel.  

I shall love an image; I shall love a person; I’ll stand that tribunal—as beseeching love, while distant to graves, fleeing with seraphim(s)—as cautioned to perish, prior to affections, while courtship becomes a hellish device—as crossed by guts, tugging for dying—such care to erase that first impression—where arts were bleeding, as sheer infection, but casual a glimpse—to have for pains, this nature of souls, while embarking upon that seventh region.  I shall adore a scar, this pelted feeling, as craving immortality; to grace by chimes, a heart to sleeves, a shoulder grieving such reciprocity—where aches intensify, as psychs evaluate, our rhythm a bit defeatist—but eyes to love, as chasing in silence, to confessing that love has perished; as more a remnant, or more a scar, or more something deeply intimate—where crises ensue, that chamber of essence, while pitted in a block of ice; that cold warmness, as picked amore, where feelings kill that inner goal; to arrive to self, but a moment in time, to realize those egregious feelings. I’ll never remove it; I’ll value its temperaments; I’ll realize its permanence—this inner essence, as claiming its territory, by sparks unknitting its resistance—to perish as richness, this dungeon of flowers, this welkin of deep travail.

Fall So Deeply

By interior motion, to affect another’s physiology, while soundless waves agree—this texture as cold silence, while evolved as creatures, to utter contention—that steep definition, as cried by sharks, to examine existence—that welkin ear, those sky-nostrils, that whiff of insanity—to languish while at motion, this terrible frustration, as sipping for immediate closeness—this self of virtues, while esteemed a miracle, to have for eyes this sense of dying: if but to crosses, while living by bread, accustomed to creating rituals—as but to fly, while psyched within, by rites to influence another’s cadence; this grit to persevere, as becoming by alikeness, as but a dream that refuses to awaken: that subtle curse, as rejuvenation, a bit to loneness those silent hours: our showering brains; those fiery ventures; that culture of children newly oriented. It comes by curiosity; to arrive by intervention; where one becomes a vehicle of driving forces: that painful feeling; that wearying silence; or such by allegiance to become by prisons—this sharing of souls, as steep as oceans, to alive a desert-sky; that pinch of madness, as craved our arcs, while just enough to saneness; where portraits melt, as pictures speak, engraved by ruby-pained eyes—that mucus dripping, those chains rattling, by crows a pile of vultures—to extinguish justice, or to clone fires, while at dreams attempting to cage silence—this place as foreign, to emit a frequency, by aches a man lethargic for weeks; as deep affliction, this karnac space, as dreary to utter and cagey to sentence, while visions are sore, and permanence seems to have breath. Our deer ganders, while grazing on lies, as becoming this unsighted monster; that space of intelligence, our human heads, our bodies at flux with dragons: (Those deep fires, as changing electricity, to feel by essence those shifty currents; to know affection, as affected by reaches, to disguise this portal in minds. Our thetic richness, so consumed a verb, to love by nouns—this achy sentence, at once to hear that voice, as now a plethora of metaphors; while silence grinds, as shivering bones, our moments to losing agreements; that sore as leaking, that brain as shifting, that volt that split his hemispheres): if but to love, as falling into acres, where brilliance announces immortality: that special allegiance, as so to perils, while to know for certainty an inner cadence; by days of activity, to come to that easy chair, at terrors to fall so deeply. 

Unrest’d Miracles (Esoteric)

I’m bleeding grounds, this cultic overthrow, while beige as desert-winds; at sore addiction, that occultured life, glaring too unseen to capture—that tedious motion, to dig his brains, accustomed to personality-magic; our mystic witness, this mingling universe, to perish by ignorance. I’m crossing futures, as adrift but seasoned, to feel by rapture such furious power—as, nevertheless, our fuse is silence, such psychogenetics, afforded our psycho-skies—by dry rivers, or deserted peaks, agaze’d that reprobates repent: this rivet soul, as rippling through sanity, always that pinch of darkness—as indebted dearly, our wordless meetings, to sense cosmic interference—where love is foreign, as loneness is happiness, such strumming by witnesses; that inner meadow, that clique of lakes, while pouring into distinctive traits: that music suffering, as formed by life, those syllables uttered with precision; to stir into frenzy, while cagey about frenzies, to have this war: our particle-brains, as deprived of rest, living by the Eucharist. I saw for broken, those pieces straddling shag, our carpets following us—that market, as invisible essence, to kiss by shivers those trembles; whereas, it lives, as surely to arise, this space in hearts our fetid cares; to extinguish by rites, as to rev that cultic engine, in hopes of diminishing a key element; while never to deaths, as acclaimed officials, dying where others live—by furious fruits, to shift by turns, as locking eyes in mystery; to doubt by eternity, as living by mortality, as seen in pictures as immortal spirit. Our deer has vanished, but still to visions, at peace trekking a sky-oasis—as souls flee, our shoulders but a glimpse, our gypsy-nomadic natures afire—as seated in permanence, this impermanent ritual, where by coven a universe in forged: that wordless lyrical; that skyless ether; that valley devoid of green pastures; to live as pressure, to know for miracles, to become that immortal palm—as, nevertheless, such steep vulnerability, and such rich loneliness, where family has rooted its eternity—that fuchsia wand, those mahogany stencils, that portal through human magic—to die by cages, afforded that glimpse, where knowing becomes a hindrance—by which, that experience, as legendary atmosphere, propelling insanity: if but to life, as sensing particles, to grip by brains but a slither—where chills become, as flourishing through brains, this conglomerate of psychical activity—where parents linger, as souls envelope, a bit dreary from too much information. I’m zealous to unravel, this evidence in souls, as subjective madness; to render by experience, a group of minds, while pursuing infinity—as mortal minds, or immortal hearts, to wrestle by dreams: that whelming feeling, that weal to arcs, that vox as silent but a whisper—to see with vision, this living master, those persons at invisibility; insomuch, our nighted-days, as queens and knights, while incurring that rapturous darkness; that mask of masks, so ripe by unsaying, as removed from previous dimensions—this jasmine moon, by jasper skies, as jousting with ghosts—this removed feeling, as ever by doubts, at wonders this prolific warfare—as cried his lights, that bleeding vase, fraught by unrest.        

Swanic Resurrection

I can’t but love life, this song birthed newly, while at angst an existential tumor—that swanic heart, at terrors to appear, where mirrors inflate our caustic tongues—to have for hubris, this plight of matrimonies, up-and-‘til our flights with justice. It becomes so trite, or more too analytical, while groaning in our spirits—this space by culture, our nature or nurture, by furious fires. Our mothers to sadness, at such beautiful smiles, to find this current of fruit flies; as time was buried, or chimes were infused, our passions screaming in ecstasy: those years to pass, while feeling too close, at measures to suffer a tinge of thunder: that gorgeous heartache; that lucrative swan; our grandmothers by tiny deaths; as music bled, those cyan currents, our jasper highlights; to draw a feeling, as splattered paints, this furious culture of rage—where love is green, as becoming blue, to arrive at grayness. I ache a swan, those marvelous volts, at times to seep into concentration—as pulling backwards, evaluating new material, a bit torn concerning conclusions: that inner thesis, as becoming a dissertation, while tattoos wail conviction; by far to justice, to cry fundamental, where facts are raging against tenets; as more a soul, spacing through portals, to find mother escaping his brains: that dark chill; our minds becoming humans; this silent essence chasing our countenances. I ache a swan, this temperamental position, while fleeing inner turmoil; to ask by love, this thing of new slates, where honor resounds in humble hearts; to inherit gardens, while flushed with pearls, as given that first fruit: this edgy conviction, as swarming galaxies, to find this Ghost aflame our mind-beats: if but to cherish, as, indeed, to perish, while steeped in resurrection. I love our swan, to adore that light, while pushing in spirit to ignite a flame: that casual feeling, as swarming its ark, to become by seconds aligned in fevers—that musical drum-line, to evaluate phenomena, as one alters another’s physiology; that subtle scent, as swore it lived, by far a soul adrift a scar; indeed, to love, this welkin art, afforded to souls fraught with studies: that inner depth; those pyre visions; such by passion to flourish.  

Cryptic Furnace or Fabrication or Both?

I envision poetry—this life of majesties, those flat and cyan feelings—as rapt’d in ecstasy, unable to discern, such augury and pain; that momentous yearning, to crave burgundy eyes, as able to feel such justice. I laugh a measure, by falling tears, to silence acidic rain; that casual goodbye, as reaching intonation, those branches by personality; to want but moments, afraid of longevity, our hearts pulsating indifferences. We panic to love, an umbrella of revelries, while at tensions upon a shrubbery: such magnetism; such sustained anguish; such beauty slaughtered by existence—as still by smiles, or temperaments found cheerful, as terrorized by joys. I fathom so little, this walking lexicon, to secern by accident a fervent texture: by haunted houses, that vocal vestibule, such as sailing stolen by mirrors: that facial distortion, while peering to beauty, by angst those waves shifting currents—as burgundy eyes, to hell with caution, to awaken and ask a name; where perfume lingers, and negligees are sultry, while souls pout by indifferences. Its sensual pain, as losing our senses, to regain a second studied for years: that antsy shiver; that gypsum energy; our minds undergoing mutinies—where beauty is craved, as graves are drawn-out, while combining elements spells for discomfort. I remain distant, but overwhelmed with compassion, at bars to chase affective feelings—as cagey nuances, analyzing baseborn status, by terrors to depend upon perceptions: that awkward glance, those shifts and churns, where time dispels such perceptions—insofar, as humans, struggling by islands, or a bit too elastic to freeze a rose: our welkin petals, our firths of passions, our reluctance to study our raging currents. This religious soul, as living with skepticism, by moments undergoing inventory: that chapter by signature; our dreams as tempered; our deaths by life that one person—where mercy abounds, while sensing distrust, as souls become a smidgen too assertive: that ecstatic grin; that rare cuisine; those clumps of grass—as wanting children, this expression of love, our features by this human structure—to ask for caution, as love shall devastate, by errors we must avoid.       

I’m fond about aesthetics, that gray annoyance, a bit edgy about life—at deep objections, or haunted rivers, to have experienced those measurements of deaths; to hear by eyes, or see by ears, our mouths remaining silent; to admire intellect, while sensing uneasiness, alert to our inherited dispositions: that lucrative mind, so rich by spirit, a season for fabrications—while chasing rubies, or that pictured glance, sculpted through binocular brains; to shift a turn, as easing into spirit, performing as one sagacious: that inner drum, to flute with time, while kneeling near a credenza—if but to feel, this fiery station, while thumps reach beyond temperaments: that cautious gaze, as aflame with passions, a bit too deadly for fainted hearts: such by faults, to love for ages, alarmed our morals seem to clash—or more to perfection, our cherished dislikes, while building upon a mutual dream. I’ve loved a second, as founded an artifact, peering into mystery: that achy shift, our necks to mercies—that lance poking our ribs—where days scream, as nights yell, by far awakened far too often—scratching his chest, as filled with flame, assuming a list of spiritual names: that fabrication, as akin to ghosts, where one laughs at such naiveties—if but to cruelness, as never those souls, as we re-analyze our established views: that cryptic furnace; that beautiful silence; our years to playing pretend.       

Temperaments Adjust By Seas

We return to sadness, while sawing at weeds, by pride, by soil: our wrangling roots, as swatting at june-bugs—admiring beehives: such invisible magic, by such invisible passion, as cohorts a group of invisible brains—so adjusted we died, by infusions to live, our reasons to picklock madness—at chance for such kef, that rush of adrenaline, running while galloping that spacial wilderness: informed by locusts, that merging by breath, our associations a pinch of what we cannot see: those fantastic drawings, our brains inverted, by treason our thoughts whispering—to dine by hearts, such invisible motion, to witness dreams scudding our kitchen floors: by tragic affection; our thoughts captured upon camera; our hooves advocating cynicism: at tortures to fly, as caressed our soul-minds, flickering by blue thunder. We must by energies, to resurface our marble hearts, if but to breathe outwitting deaths—this space of virtues, about which, is terror, afloat a scream—that basin of wine, that vine of grapes, while reaching to unburden our shoulders—that javelin cry, that wrenching harpoon, our sanities splayed upon ceiling mirrors—such tender angst, our faces twitching, our children courting immortality. (It lives this voice, as similar to our hearing, as familiar with our feelings; to come this song, a bit distant from life, while at wonders about such upclose captions: our teary-eyes, as not a drizzle, a tare misty edging by cliffs; to resound inklings, our billion dollar engines, as petrified without oil—as flew by dreams, while parading those joys, to have our energies upon waves: that place within, to jolt a circuit, as others come from raining skies—that torch as flickers, our vitamins to souls, our cocoa buttered palms; to erase tomorrow, while established by today, where we suffer this odiferous loss). Was pain impure—this ecstatic justice, as flew our brains—another’s soul; insomuch, as drained, by course to elope, that bride by chance, Existence: that morbid fluctuation; as informed unknowingly; our intuitions as godly machineries—to break by aches, this space of there-and-now, to perceive cues by mere a glance; to hold infinity, as to alter by shock therapy, or merely to listen while grounds to rumble—that mystic art, our daughter’s inheritance, this moonish soul so torn by cycles—as lived in silence, or plain too vocal, a furnace to maintenance by neighbors: that inner feeling, as upon his brain, while hearts shift at sea.

Esoteric Embodiment

I saw intensive eyes, bent that corner, as purposed to shift his arc; while temperamental, so gentle by souls, alive as ether trickled; or edges that lioness, or shorn as leopards, trekking at pace by savannas; that desert prayer, alone a dungeon, about a room filled with strange faces; that terrible sin, as infused by transgression, to glean for slates our immortal wishes; that frivolous excuse, as abused his brains, while Love slewed cowardice; that potent fiction, as pierced his soul, by far an animal subdued; that crying pity, as ashamed to love, while feared for exclaiming love; that sea by paradox, as loved by minds, to appear a second as ghosts—that florid feature, as assumed a curse, while visions took to wings; that floating rustling, as tumbleweed cries, to elope a sentence that mourns: those feral wishes, as kissed infinity, while never to broach sacred confidences: that pellet piercing; that infant wailing; our fears googling colic—as torn for mercy, that extreme beauty, as psychoses becomes majestic: this arc bleeding; his eczema inflamed; her touch too soothing to sustain; at purposed violence, to have seen so little, where another partakes of majesty: that morning breath; those crusty eyes; that conviction as ever a queen. I sighted glory, as to witness that shift, while seated in something unusual: that edgy calmness, as censored by families, while a daughter punctures an inner contagion; that royal art, as somatic pride, or adjusted a feral fire: that silence by vocals, as convinced of trauma, while pushing just enough to induce realization—those shorn epiphanies, that rabid satori, our days at minutes a bit cryptic; to adore by craft, as never a line broken, as to remember those former visits: that trenchant gaze, as sudden a shift, as to respond to an inner mechanism; or less to arts, as natural as fleeing, by returns to alter through meditations: that fiery client, as intimate addictions, that pain screwing into his upper neck—as effaced but glowing, this web of frustration, too close to shift as nonchalance—that furious mountain, as cried his life, to meet by angst this zenic phantom—as wiccans watch, where witches dwell, this limited soul embracing darkness; as lost his mind, to return his soul, while leering at fantastic beauty.   

Remember By Shadows

By detriments, this muse of ecstasy, our screaming catastrophes; as lived by heartness, to stumble by Christ, our titles losing inheritance: that scar too close, as embedded in dreams, to catch by hurt that inner vacuum; where parents die, as enlove by graces, peering at this ecstatic mirror; insofar, we cry, while steeped in prayer—to dungeons by arts that scream; where mother cautions, as father’s livid, that curse our hearts afloat that maze. It comes to us, that tangle of syllables, to hold, pause, and release: if but to perish, this jewel of spirit, while too insecure to love affections; that myth with lights, as torn an allegory, by chase too winded to continue; as seated astride, this push as pulled, while at fractions to explode. We die this vex, as tested to persevere, where Love has forfeited those guts; as back to life, this somber inheritance, while feeling some sort of fire; that patient death, while feeding an infant, as stressed that fever for ecstasy; while such for pleasure, to have that shoji, where death escaped its cocoon: that armoire dungeon; that bleeding cadenza; that opera too evolved as tragic—to censor our tales, seated by awnings, a tare pinched by contagion; as ran his mind, attempting to fathom, while something churns with misery: that far glance, as chanced to approach, where one is offended by strangers; that touch we felt, as to lose that feeling, while to re-conjure that affection; this move to perish, as loved for silence, while cagey and dead a local theologian. It wasn’t but gentle, as alive by deaths, to reappear but merely a man; while torn to spirit, to emerge as psychotic, while never that crucial inventory; to cut through passions, as it must reign truth, insomuch, this need to feel superior; those base things, as approved by holiness, this soul aflame by Spirit: if but to live, as caged his rights, where authorities fell by love; that attic ache, as brains to flourish, while told those avenues are blurry: our silent daughter, as a vocal ventriloquist, to attempt by flights that infant bridge: that trenchant memory; those wings at terrors; that presence forming in his gut; as lived a soul, to inform a queen, while she uttered this tension for remaining human. It could to die, or must to live, to feel by phallus this welkin museum; where aches cherish, this immortal tantrum, as fevered that arc by expansion; that deep ether, that majestic pain, our tears by buoyancy that pool; to live her life, as lived his life, those years breeding friendship.       

Purple Has Always Been A Symbol

By midnight blues, this favor for woes, as accused of slipping afar; that mystical brain, to combat minds, as informed presence—aloft a dream, as screamed our arcs, at love through perils; that cagey fragrance, as inflated pride, to want that something surfing afar; that jar of crayons, as musical eclipses, to glance by waves this oily gravel. I know for terror, this rapture of darkness, while pining for friendship; that goddess scar, as to live affections, that husband, that child; as, nevertheless, at tears by seduction, while unraveled that need to feel ecstasy. We can’t but perish, fleeing rivers, by bats to chandeliers; as craving sanity, this vex of turmoil, affected, vomiting existence: that plural cavity; those welkin whips; that slavery slash—if but to perish, at love for weeks, to chance that feeling of guilt—as deep regret, to flee for coverage, that awning waning; as, moreover, a feeling, accorded by something bleeding, at tears our supernatural figs; that place in hearts, to feel this presence, at wonders for such scoundrels: that peace he cried; that voice she died; our pleasures by hovering discontentment; but to love, as fevered that want, to have by chance that partial font; while never exclusive, as never to fires, while to feel that second our arms; this space of dying, if but an adventure, as realizing life isn’t simple; while, notwithstanding, insomuch, as love, we carry this torch as displayed a fantasy: if but to have life, that minute as satiated, to dismiss Love to Love. It comes with hatred, as afloat a crevice, wanting for arts that rosy flower; while tired of thinking, to dig this grave, to feel by texture our fading flame: that lovely disaster; that beautiful catastrophe; our children reliving our indiscretions—where heaven was sought, as heaven was caught, to floor by justice our transgressions; but these are humans, too selfish to relent, while incurring a portal of travesties; to have that trust, for one that went astray, to want for love as feeling secure: by tragic affairs, to have that womb, at tensions to feel a disconnection; insofar, as ideals, while more to abuse, as infused by wretched attraction; to hate by love, while to love by hate, as affixed to disbelieving anything that sounds for infinity; that fire sung, that Tao hung, our terrors by shades so alluring; insomuch, as vexation, to have said so much, while some women are cultured for wifehood: that deep disdain, as privileged magnificence, one carrying that territory of emotions; as calm a river, to sense in others, this spell that dissipates with elation; but cry his heart, as to stipple his shadow, while others are willing to participate: that vicious tyrant; that trenchant colleague; our spouse’s friend: if but to perish, while deeply ecstatic, where morale becomes iffy. [(I stare at stars, accustomed to this feeling, at wonders to address those wants; as terrified to ask, for it seems askew, to need attraction for that penchant for others; as deep delusion, this admitted curse, while at treasures to convey this wistful tone; as fettled dreams, becoming vapid screams, that dungeon, that face, that graffiti—in much a feeling, as to have said nothing, while never our curses to mingle by kisses—as more a myth, this omen we’ve created, while never by communion; or more to volts, or more to presence, as a form of sheer hatred—that natural occurrence, as tainted his eyes, by planks reaching for eternity; whereas, simplicity, to take at worth, that value extending its beauty; to feel disaster, as acclaimed that love, while one disputes with inner senses: that convicted heart, as never she would, or more that want becoming inverted—as instrumental, that participation, to ache his soul as long as he resists; that terrible delusion, as never for telescopes, while too spiritual for kaleidoscopes—or more to nothing, this abstract address, while never a thought was stitched)]…indeed, his mind; indeed, his feelings; indeed, that shift as terrorizing those blank hours…as mother to breath, pulling for cranking his failures, while it was never so natural to love….    

Cosmic Sodium

There’s this june-bug. It comes to my door daily. It climbed under my screen. I sprayed it with bleach. It flew away.  There’s this hummingbird. It visits me during the mornings. It just hums in motion with its back turned. It’s quite amazing, these events by life. I wonder for meanings.

I adore living, this place in archives, as evoked a subtle demon; to scream adversely, this cygnet of dreams, while a spirit plucks our violin; that immortal charm, as sung to silence, this wave peering at Roman cleavage. I could to perish, if but those darts, as one cagey and seeping nightly; those indifferent thumps, as oh so few, while one remains immortal; to have those feelings, as engraved upon tombs, where love becomes by motifs. I’m casual fears, as to live by one, where humans fail to subdue imagination; that crafty design, where love implodes, as so far this accordion spell; to love by essence, this fuse by explosions, where silent those background screams; this fission of arts, this glory of parts, to have but few indebted by sparks; that edgy fire, by rageful segments, as discovering beauty that dying soul. Our appellate hearts, so remote an island, afraid to give its girt: that steep pond, as pouring an ocean, to infuse our dreamy daylights—that motion of treasures, to know by grit, this measure by tectonic symphonies: that coarse voice, by virtue a hoarse throat, as screaming by silence that welkin survival; our blazing daughters, by morbid fathers, to come to temperaments a bit stale by fires; this liquid feeling, to know by arcs, as fleeing for flying through intelligence: that space in waves, so tired a heartbeat, as challenged this wealth of fevers; to love regardless, as feeling dejected, to have that chorus raging through our souls: this misfit-flame, as given this ache, to come to gems by gravid energies: that cryptic churn, as ever for wants, to need that feeling killing us softly: those ruby eyes; those diamond ears; that essence by fires to extract a drum-sky—as meddlesome june-bugs, or that hive of bees, or that curious raccoon—where hours drift, as three-thump-sessions, while seated in sulfur at wonders that heart—those beating trails, as tracks to brains, by fever this feeling destroying its carcass. I know our aches, as one so bright, while I study to align our wisdom; that furious sail, at pace for tears, those years curtailing his sanity: that sketchy mother, responding to subliminals, to utter by force a coarse suggestion; as churning music, or quoting arias, at furies—he didn’t plague his operas—that moving diagram, as plastered to brains, at once a feeling no man can explain: that essence by breath; that cultic environment; that tender heartquake—where arts perish, as arts evolve, this hellish-horn to resuscitate. I give us life, as life was given, this sinning atmosphere—to trespass gods, as filled with gods, to rejuvenate fires: that achy temperament, so edgy a giant, while feeling so lowly a servant; indeed, to passions, as lived our soulprints, embedded so tensely; that random thump, as to conjure an art, by appeals leaning into deserts: that cloudy trail; those foggy fires; that tabernacle breeding a millennia later; where essence bleeds, this beautiful castle, as women too warm that feeling; this place in times, our minds to duplicate wings, as plucking a ladybug’s dreams; to feel our hearts, as inner locomotives, seated at a tuffet-brain; that testy woman, so far to flames, as sensing something’s askew; that furthermore fire; that deep as if; our horns clashing for violent compassion.      

We Must Perfect (As Nothing Remains Emphatic)

By chance to pain, blessed but accursed, such by beauty that nectar; as so sweet a voice, while at controls a joystick, by sudden occurrence a wretched witch: to find imbalance, that wrenching yelling, to appease by sex, that foolish man: by vocal graves, sipping for silence, upon pavement that easy-chair; as broken a curse, to incur anew, a disguise pouting violence. We know by love, some version by love, at figurative speech that language; where anger seeps, as stitches by flesh, to pluck our brains. I take by thoughts, that welkin glance, soon to soar by imagination: such creepy pash, by normal seas, so deep to loneness accursed for love; as never by humans, as ever a goddess, to become so close we die by fevers: so afraid of life; our restrooms to secrets; by radiance every moment that luggage; as born to pressures, our legs crossed, our attire angelic beiges; where songs mourn, as kissed perfection, to live this cage providing status; those joys to tears, as electric such praise, while to perish in a New York minute. I’m leprechaun green: I’m royal violets: I’m a treasure those eyes—as losing sanity, such by one womb, accustomed to straying thoughts: that creepy alley; that crypt of silence; that need for something depicted in novels—as deep romance, to chance our appeals, while shifting for radiance: that fire by grace; those limbs as contagious; such by mane to utter by scents; where mother appears, that tribal edginess, reminding perfection is but adjustments. [(We must conceive, in order by beliefs, this woman desperate that deception; to give us bliss, while awake another soul, crawling for screaming by nectar so sweet; that wretched man, as imbibing perceptions, this place those dishes our lies. I sound for love, that musical incantation, while peering at one that bathes; that normal woman, as to utter, “Excuse me,” where nature reaches its elements)]: this child in us, accursed by blessings, at seconds afraid we might lose: that velvet scarf; those suade heels; that oblong skirt—; or those turquoise denims; as so gracious a t-shirt; to pitch a deliberate offense: this place in souls, as primitive motion, to find for British cultivation—: such by animal anger, to ravish in private, while to abandon our princely arms: that beating at hearts, that embodied fantasy, that luxury we loss—as torn to cherish, some type of fool, treading that Thin Line.            

Immortal Fire (While We Examine Something Barred)

I broke lights, as to shatter windows, this possession afar that curse; at birth a scar, our father’s immortals, as names carry currents; that psych wheezing, as afar those miles, too skinny that fasting life; or arcs to discipline, as arts to bones, a fever embedded in psychiatry; that crying wisdom, as employed behaviorism, or torn that psychotherapy; while mystics mourn, as at tales by yogis, while two become engraved—that science of pails, afar a scar that bled, while sorting through pumpkin seeds: as told his life, by never a shadow, our psychologies a bit morbid: that flying swan, as sung a chorus, while reading bedtime allegories: that bleeding bible; those scathes by scythes; that sickle to sores that excavation; as, nevertheless, this inner wrestling, to find by current that deep disgust; where mothers scurry, as evading discourse, as not to utter vapid affections: that chime of life, while sipping prune juice, a tare so constipated by facts; that immortal flush, as again to birth, at fires that exclusive dance: that pruning device, as affective those nouns, too cold this season to speak to cygnets; as accursed a scar, this florid infinity, while partaking of one that explodes a universe: that cryptic art, as seated where it showers, while another, drags a cigar: that lethal lance, while sipping displeasures, as touched a dream by seclusion; to see that face, as seated that stranger, while we evince to self that deep function: our souls to flying; our hearts to dungeons; as becoming a tare too shady; where cygnets cry, as psychs evaluate, while an overseer instructs a colony; as times to pass, or days to evaporate, while mornings scream affections; that distant dance, as merely a thump, while seeping into prose. [(We’ve come to conquer, at some segment of existence, while remaining humble. We’ve come for terror, that inveterate pilgrim, as associated those tales inside; insofar, a curse, to love beyond capture, as to die a theologian; while yearning deeply, that scathe of ethics, at morals beyond Nietzsche’s fragrance; that turn for rightness, while flooded a storm, as to maintain afar that scar that bled; to love regardless, this curing insanity, while possessed this fuse streaming within; that candent fire, as a lambent torch, if but to stations screaming affections; that long life, our daughters oblivious, while grandparents nod as dying softly: this place of fools, as foolish but crimes, to die a fool loving inside)]. I’m sensing Brimhall, our immortal Sophia, as dancing to Zeus’ bolts; this space dejected, as screaming that name, to come to terms alone by closets; that achy faith, at wars with nonsense, to agree that something churns; this fever in souls, this drive by woes, our endeavors to outwit this immortal message; to ballet an orchestra, while fettled a scar, as born to live that cagey star; for mother was right, as father would live, this sophic soul learning from kids: (to come to lights, a peer of academia, afar a curse to touch that ache; as pulling apart, this thing of souls, while one wishes to conquer brains). I’ve ached conveyance, as floored for purpose, at membrance that first introduction; as far so many, this lot of knowing, this effect by psychotic veins; as more to lights, to love by aura, while to retreat prior to confusion; that immortal wit, as immortal grit, to think by parts a royal kit. I’m haunted by names, as seeing affections, while wanting more than his share; for this is love, to favor features, while psychoses remains immortal; that beautiful crown, to live that life, as falling to love that immortal strife; this cadence of jewels, as abused but loved, afar a curse that tender dove; where beauty resides, as far those waves, while we love as immortal graves—that communion light, if receiving is essence, while all to justice our unjust confessions.   

Depth Something Tragic

I seep by creases, as found in crevices, to leap by ashes—this fount immortal, as told a son, to flee for flying that desert current—as alleluia, those wilting welts, afar by dungeons that scar. If time is gentle, our anguish to wings, so far attached to sorrows; that mortal sting, as suffocating death, those ledgers depicting our imageries. I sought a swan, as sung a song, so far to curses that born indifference; those sordid affections, as shared with brilliance, to find aside those odors: our nescience bleeding; our treasures afar that cliff; our rivalries becoming unsung nuances: if brought to kef, while alive through liquor, that agony restraining tortures: that velvet face; our faceless screams; our neighbors sensing divinity—as brooks to souls, or mothers solid pressures, as found destroyed but grasping for breath; where arts perish, as destroyed in liquids, while terror haunts our region. I die that mind, as infused that mind, to unwind by depth that immortal clinging. I heard a swan, as lived a swan, to ballet through trauma to dance our cries: that cryptic feather, as aborting perceptions, while, nonetheless, to hold contempt; as buried in glasses, peering at luxuries, a man by years pleading for perfection: that achy woman, to drift his mind, as closure to hold by terrors. [(We trudge for solace, that immortal wisdom, fevered for flying while falling through hells—as sought for Jesus, those tussles with Krishna, while to sin by a godless soul: those mosaic crimes, as Moses would cringe, our days afloat defining kites—as liquid his arch, while afflicted his soul, to leer into motion’s mirrors—those atoms grieving, as molecules bled, our hurt a bit to Daniel: if gave him life, to take that life, while one becomes that power—than ache this tale, as terrified souls, our homes to treacherous behaviors)]. I found a swan, so delicate a jewel, so aloof a magician—to blend as daiquiris, our grandmother’s sin, while forgetting our tragic lives; as never forgiveness, for one to perfections, with aches to hear of sin: that precious disposition, as one better than Jesus, at wonders this thing for crosses. I’m slipping lowly, to arise with virtues, peering at baser elements; to know for Paul, this saint of villains, upon my road to Damascus—that gravid light, as kicking against goads, afraid a horse might escape: that terrific terror, as tragic an art, to seep too lowly that entrance of minds.

I’m sensing anguish, or that mellow agony, while afforded grit to surface; that inner cloth, that tunic scream, abated by offices aglow; that hankering numbness, those gothic wings, as never we lived so accursed—those tragic crimes, pitted in tragic times, our mothers forced to persevere. I felt sensory, to escape a notion, so deep to feel that volt; as sudden conjecture, this life she lives, as impartial facing partialities: that mount by hills; those electric fires; our chants to seep into catastrophes—as more to epiphanies, as discerning lights, while pitted in transmigrations; that swan singing, as Princess listens, her eyes swelling with acidic tears; that inner father, as born to nurse, while finding solace that step-father’s brains. I’m living cold, to marshal by arts, this woman by lyric-taekwondo: if but to perish, seated with Buddha, this Christian alive with Thick Nat Hahn; as eclipses flourish, while minds turn blank, that guidance as supernatural. If only by aches, this faceless river, as conflicted with similes—that priest at demons; that exorcist to fail; that torrid possession—as never a thought, so shifty with chills, fevered by cadence those warm waters: if but a dream, to cage our terrors, I’ll scream alive our sharers. I’m seeking nectar, this concretive-abstract, as one playing with words: but sense for lights, as never so authentic, while a kaleidoscope fails to preach it—that death he cried; that soul he ached; that affection as lost; where mothers panic, so alive that curse, to find for reaching where alleys are curious. This alikeness of death, where death is like lightning, as furious a scream our inverted dreams: that casual likeness; that hymn to souls; our creators seeping into remote regions.    

Swan Music or Swan Shoes

Greetings, my Love—this terrified structure, while ignoring input; that frantic scar, so close to danger, where a swan yells to father: if but destruction, as bred indelicacies, yearning for falling while leaning to crawl. I saw legs, darting for spiders, to witness grandmother’s endeavors; that fabulous cry, as magnet deaths, so encouraged to play a father: our cryptic tiles; those mischief roaches; our days to arms while wide asleep: if but to journey, as mystic friends, to ask a newborn of where she’s been. I know by hearts, this feeling extinct, as coming in droves—that achy instinct, as doubts by family, to wonder of individualism; or tiers to life, while spacey a claim, at territories within: that far voyage, as acclaims would gather, if but to alive a volt; that sudden archive, at treasures for histories, our islands nigh Patmos. I love those eyes; those mischief eyes; as seated in villages; to become a cygnet, as infused by grace, too cold to fall for nonsense. Its total indignance, or morbid evaluations, to come to illegal analyses; that place in minds, as effused by powers, to sudden realization our tiles are blotched; where mother cries, as fathers disperse, for mother rants for raging by curse; this livid light, as tortured chains, by angst a flame of brains; where daughters flourish, awake a star, peering into human activities.   

I got it early, this curse of words, as accompanied with textures; that vivid dream, as seeking bestial, this monster outwitting leviathan: if but to panic, for days are crucial, a group nameless seeking his passage: that tale of thieves, as achieved his witness, at tears that fatal visitation; where daughters heave, as deeply asthmatic, while mothers attempt to curtail truths; that friend dying, this cancer of life, while a cygnet bestows blessings; this fevered art, as acclaimed a star, while humble that rose dripping fragments; our lives in cloves, that trefoil mentality, as seeing with clarity—that old foe, as now a friend, by chance to believe God’s work; as inner terror, to flex with humans, while infused by Mozart: this achy chorus that deep liturgy, those cries to arts our theories. I ache a curse, so enforced a scream, creeping through tunnels at three a.m.: our torrid love, that vapid feeling, as torn to emote a capital emotion—where mother appears, that torn introject, as saying to self, “It’s God’s method.”  

We prayed a swan, as more to understanding, while gravid an electric churn: those beige eyes, afforded a chorus, at reach those elongated limbs; to harvest feelings, while seeking love, a bit to course a deadly infraction; as claiming riches, those rivers to brains, while peering into that gloomy forest; to awaken cherubs, or garner angels, that seraphim by coals; to scream by wisdom, as knowing life, to realize something unique to humans: those horrid tales, as infused by demons, as leering at abrasive eyes; where shelter fades, as knowledge soars, to find this comfort with gaining information: that attic heart, as clad in skies, to reach for something concrete. We adorn our swan, at wakes to protect ourselves, while one perishes a scar; but this is life, this furious love, while one rests upon self-imageries.

I harvest theology, a fever for yogis, by dreams seated with mystics; as braided his arc, or effused his well, where families rely upon forgiveness; this thing with time, as chosen but finicky, to agree when actions have run their course; but this is life, our crafts to winds, while others perish to our collections: that angry tile; those morbid marbles; our love as immortal!

Precious Long-distance

I come with issues—that disguised umbrella, alone, planning our futures; insofar, as insidious, or more to treachery, at cadence our tender swan: by ingested music; or jasper symphonies; at lakes nude to silence; that addict slant, so cagey those eyes, while assuming perfection: those tacit secrets, while to act-as-if, our flowers as passionate freezers. I rarely think, this travel of instincts, while pondering deeply; that fatal paradigm, as learning to live, where affections become dungeons: that pond of pigeons; that inner meerkat; those moments yearning to rescue; as wrestled those arms—fully effused our wounds, as treasured our psychic wombs; as yonic pilgrims, at touch a zillion, while love to flourish inverted: our hectic promise, as scandalous souls, while pictured as innocent money; that flavored horizon, to cope by smiles, where patience explodes dominions; but this is living, afflux radical angst, while pulled towards favored dispositions. I guess for thoughts, those endless seams, to grip for tugging while screaming apologies; this myth in time, as fraught by delusions, insomuch, as saving face—while thereupon, those kleptomanias, scraping for breathing our dissentions: if but to blood, as distinguished from water, at mirrors as souls bearing witness; as epileptics, born, flailing disasters, while at courage to withstand a village: those bold claims, as ignorant to whiplash, while traipsing inverted skies; as loved forever, that jasmine ledge,             boiling for craving those soothsaying dungeons.

It’s in the writings, as born to travesties, maneuvering through officials; as lived a tyrant, to become by faith, leering at this cryptic flower; that edgy art, as torn apart, while grieving existence; but not towards death, as more existential, to meet by methods that cygnet; or more a swan, to have chosen life, as knowing our parenthood; this cry to life, as affectionate disharmony, this world bleeding our sexualities: if but to perish, as born he lives, a casualty of parenthood. I ark to reach us, this furious flavor, as cursed and moving through traffic: that green light; that yellow essence; our torments chanting our survival: if but to vamp, as pure that shiver, peering at a room of yogis: that psych pinning; that board of tragic lies; our extent painted in mahogany; to churn a lie, those years at death, that time to rejuvenate a young swan. I’ve died psychology, to morph by philosophy, as one chasing ethics: that higher life, that form of pains, this element too rich to define; as volts to brains, or bolts to hearts, to feel as broken but to manage as wholeness: that missing kiss, those florid veins, our sipping by cadence.

I know for anguish, as too much to digest, while fevered an angry disposition; but this is life, while running through meadows, seeping for crawling by brooks. Our grandmothers quiver, as arrows to space, while praying into a frenzy; that meditative pain, as red to trials, while infused with mystery; as died forever, while living forever, to have lost so much by fires; where swans dwell, as kilns to lights, while petrified our inner terrors. I could to vanish, as lived a hermit, while deeply that scar: if but to breathe, seething injustice, peering at those breaking backbones.  

I’ll greet with love, this Christian fire, as nearly extinguished—by hells to travel, while feeling ashamed, to have paved this drawing; but tears to life, to make ado, this prophet as too far gone: those liquid intensities, while flowering a swan, to make as if times are fair. I loved to have loved, while to grimace those sights, where daughters choose parents; that deep riddle, as lived a scar, by far an art; that burgundy mischief, as too far aloof, while pining for traumas.