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)].