Stand Infused

Strong delusions, and so forth, correlated through webs—this lock of souls, as chosen through grime, our mothers to free-base. I’m a young lad, afforded a gift, raised by gutter instincts; as never to mention, this thing of colors, our grandmothers praising their heritage; as skin to accents, or beige to brown, our mulattoes struggling in-betweens. I’m warm as ice, as cold as sun(s), as to ponder that metaphor. It becomes abstract, at love with grief, this season to extend our theologies; that mythic dream, as beauty to tortures, to wonder of such insidious crimes; that social contract, as born to Lucifer, pleading for ultimate clearance: that son’s curse, that bucket of voodoo, our mixing of colors: if but to live, as bedded in glaciers, this mother mourning her wealth. I’m holding back, as becoming frustrated, at needs to divulge—that immediate motif, spread through professors, an abbot too deceased to breathe.     I know your aura, so bold a vessel, as born bleeding Christ; that devious pressure, at breaks to perish, while too involved to deceive; this vet of prose, as afforded a curse, too possessed to enter church; those grounds for instruction, as infused for explosions, accustomed to meeting in spirits; that form of matrimony, as resisting marriage, to cut and dine by means to repeatedly die; those captive arcs, afflux our hearts, to muse by cadence as confessed a friend: that terrible pleasure, as fused in pains, while screaming he died a flame.     I know your passion, while hating your aura, if but to die your Love; that fatal harpoon, if to love but thrice, as each a personal dominion; that destructive patience, to have her soul, while vexed for sinning: that African art; those symbols of roots; our gods to swarm through Kalunga: if but to exist, a fist to our stars, our fathers holding grudges; as born to strife, that liquor to bottles, that fan rotating smoke; this edgy smaze, as fraught by soot, our mothers becoming mimes.     I feel ecstasy, as lived by graces, while many stand aloof; as something tugs, this industry of spirits, and that Muslim observer; at tiers to perish, that moon at heights, that daughter as musing; if but by lutes, or flutes of skin, as realized this ethnic root: our opus flutes, as deafening ears, where mother outsoars our college wits; that deep abrasion, as doting breezes, if but to love this taken woman: that shifty tile; that ecstatic wisdom; or to hearts that psychotic element.     I’m akin to zeal, that zenith as zest, and purely infatuated; but never again, I’ll die such feelings, aloof to arcs while filled with passion; to compose by futures, this woman as achy, if but to perform while dead-alive—this sipping agent, if but a dream, by guards this festival of ambushes.     I could read a volt, as to render a heart, but time convoluted our vision. It comes with deaths, as afforded a name, while demons send strong delusions: that woman chiming; that daughter bleeding; our fathers playing as if airs aren’t sacred; this place of passion, to know that I see, this image of beauty rising into me; as torn a legacy, to arise one last gift, if but to lose this spirit that rhymes: those bold antiques; that gorgeous psychotic; our days to shifting as if time was oblivious.