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.
