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.
