I
wouldn’t dare, those cyan colors, seated, but nesting, our long ago aches; that
deep intercourse, while eyes find home, to culture through violence our naked
bones. I fathom love, this section of murders, while to perish awakened to
sleep: those lose jeans; that need to feel; this woman suffocated by
proprieties; to laugh by miracle, suggesting immortality, as moved but dying
softly: that eager withdrawal; those white pearly pills; that phantom your name
bleeding in turquoise: if but to wrestle, embedded in Tao, our tender mercies
seeking forever—that casual death, beaded in resurrection, as far a ghost our
drooling wits: that culture to hells; those facts as tormenting; our colors so
professional; to have mixed feelings, our souls by issues, our tissues rift
asunder. I wouldn’t dare, as disrespecting values, while pleated in sinister
normalities: that achy attraction, as captured but fools, so aloof it tends to
become negative—those constant chides, that wind to loins, our moisture by
paths our living-room quell:
if
but cacophonies, as opposed to flutes, while singing purple by grace; that
furious treachery, as be it to live, our pillows aching our aforesaid; insofar,
a thesis, as never our lives, while running by meadows our dissertation: that
brilliant mind, as not for faint of heart, that person by centers as thriving;
to ache eternally, while born but seconds, to come to treasures as leaking
humanity: that gray falcon, as mental by brains, to seek with solace something
painful: our green rivers; that ship by memoirs; our furnace flickering for
months; as lived a queen, by far our wreckage, by arch a needle thrust through
flesh; where daughters dream, as adults to life, peering at cultures for
non-address: that serious tone; that achy discomfort; our hearts at castles
streaming within; to hear that name, by faucet a scream, to know for wants but
a second in time; to ruin our souls, this printed misfit, while resonating by
lights that shy energy; to need by pressure, this ark of woes, a bit too
advanced to chase that wafting hive; indeed, to mischief, to lie for purpose,
while at love sighted as fools; that non-address, or waves that die bleeding
charms, to mimic by kites this flooding psalm; where dying wanes, while torture
teethes, a bit to grace our favored disdain;
as,
nevertheless, this deep imperative, this soul nauseous by feelings: that roar
about nothing; that cry about feathers; our treads so distant by scars; to hate
by glance, or love by measures, as pulled to by fro—that welkin demon, as sent
deception, at times to imagine, It’s
never enough.
We
play with feeling, as feelings wrought havoc, by texture this force screaming, Bloody Murder…if but to ache, I’ll
cringe in disgust, by far too young for that journey; where lies rule, as
truths writhe, while Love gathers a thistle of briers; to flame at tears, this
fire to twain, our days to cries as living insane: that shorn terror; our livid
errors; this fancy by delusion.
