To
kiss dry blood, infused with trends, abased, peering at Cartier dreams—as died
his life, effused with passion, this woman too perfect our affections; by
Chanel islands, this fevered beauty, afar as scrambling that tussle by
deaths—to arrive a daughter, agaze’d by pigeons, afflux our tender illusions; at
harvest feathers, filmed at Harvard, too much to sails our summers.
I
imagine your screams, seated in torments, for haunted our mansions: those
traipses to dungeons, our incipient graffiti, to realize existential chaos; as
mothers cherish, if deaths to perish, alone by welkin amore; to die to hearts,
by mere our souls, to have given we dare surrender; those jasper cries, as
jasmine tears, such muddy faculties our roses: if but to pose,
our
rendered havoc, at tests to live we didn’t cherish…this form of minds,
excluding existence, while wrapped in essence our torn resistance: by Dior
passions, to cinema our lives, by far assembling our distant existence; to love
as vinyl, this curtain of men, our parties flushed with born again(s); where
purple parishes, that flux of hearts, as to shoot volts by departed acres: that
field
of screams; that castle of deaths; our parents to churn by graves—where sights
are aborted, to realize dysfunction, while painting that perfect image—where
souls would laugh, as needing that feeling, if but to escape fabrication; that
light of lies, as cried our sessions, affected by groups longing by direction:
this place in hearts, at course our resurrection, affected for afflicted
peering
at incarnation. I ponder deeply, this swan to flights, leering at Saint
Laurent: our cryptic tales, to feel that second, where love would sprout ferns;
that beautiful Christmas, as so much was given, to die our existential
accounts; that steep bankruptcy, to witness that smile, as graphed but falling
into pits; that woman at love; that tour through hells; our days afflux
rebellion:
if but to live, as drilling by carcass, to find to living this death…that achy
daughter; those fervent siblings; our mothers drained but pushing complaisance:
if but to again, that slippery slope,
by essence this premise advocating decent; where fathers perish, as lived
desolation, agaze’d but falling into liquor: that fabulous crime; that liquid
woman—so far apart
those
seams; as lived our sin, to discount our beings, if but to play this intricate
game; where children are anchors, to hold our cities, while mothers scold our
reality: that cautious event; those tales to surface, our worlds to clash gripping at that future; indeed, to
values, to know for truths, this person to love until; as more to visions, while feeling cemented, adrift a hostile
existence.
