Pure Attraction, As Inner Cinema

I’m running eyes     by courage to churn     such deceptive brains—this flute but life     this lute but passion     as craved a lucid sentence: if perished we live, by parish to sin, so steep such aggressive trespass: that portrait cinema; that mental matinee; this soul abashed for imageries: that surreal inversion, so aloof to patience, fleeing for frolicking through tulips.     We struck a volt, as cave-distance to winds, to arrive at friendship: our tragedy music; our ambiguous seduction; this fretting heart distinguishing textures—such as chaos, filmed as travesties, alive a glint our imaginations: that perfect psychology, to raise a son, as depicted in mannerisms.     I shall but live;     I shall but die;     this soul by claves those temple clippings: our portico shames, this hive of reality, this ghost dripping through visions; as appalled to perish, while at tears to breathe, as met a second to re-gesture mysticism—that pagan charm, such déjàvu, as a man desires more—this cave racing, this ache at flames, our increments but pure delusion—as torn particles, those academic eyes, this thunder we possess concerning romance—as awkward lights, our bulbs fumbling, to chance with arcs this feral atmosphere.     We sail seas     arriving through sensations     debating step by step—this rabid reality     to win accustomed to sinning     or fire to soul our restless agonies: that inquisitive eye; that gaze to tables; that need to perfect ere our children—while sudden to currents, if but illusional sin, while to utter a woman’s riddle: this pulse in mind     while racing through aircrafts     semi-addictive that fleeting second.     I can’t capture it;     I came to laughter with it;     while reality stands appointed to destroying an inner fixture: as pure seduction; to carry this aura; by gestures designed to cull admiration: if but to fly, such by nonchalance, a tad bit hebetated; that dull fever, peering at calmness, this treasured feature that culture.     [It becomes traits;     it lives through sexuality;     we treasure candid feelings]; that surreal creature, as pardoned a realist, by anger traveling at warp speed; to congest his mind, if but an adventure, a bit severed by power: this welt within; that winning distance; this want to possess—as fleeing culture, while immersed in culture, that inner heart-harp.     Its psycho-anesthesia, or genetic-disposition, weld tightly by physical prowess—this cryptic by thoughts, as imbuing one with mystery, while ignoring our limited data-resources; where less becomes mystical, while more maintains distance, this soul at fevers debating pure silence; this crevice of warriors, as disturbed but taciturn, to churn through tyrannies: that brave gesture, as prepared for war, while reality keyboards this dearth of information: those cloth-tight jeans; that aesthetic blouse; that blasé disposition—as professional warmth, this arch as leaning, our song as derived through enchants; where father would laugh, such to mystic romance, to have narrowed attraction down to physical transparencies—as but his torture, our mental-atmosphere, this inner ambiance—where never breeds, this must to retreat, while adhering to social fire-posts.   {I died attraction;     I lived rejuvenation;     I’ll never to flights our combustion—where souls seek infinity, those moments to molding, this adventure where our worlds evaporated; to see such eyes, or structure such thoughts, by mere a shadow wrestling with our parents: those discredited elements; to vitiate wholeness; while we yearn through silence: this inner movie, as immortal souls, a bit at expertise our callings—where mother portrays, this gray fixture, at roofs prying through blueprints.     We shall dine at souls, this all day travel, as awakened sorely}.

Pull & Tug

I saw maestros     embedded in silken ropes     slithering for speaking—that captive sun     so allergenic     so contagious—as spaced in portals     numbing cranberries     that misty blue curtain: if but to hassles     as castled our brains     such by science carbonating religiosity—that ruby crystal     those cryptic saints     this miracle at studies: such blotchy rivers     those muddy diamonds     this patch-mine—as creative intensity, at flowers by fires, too encased to blemish sensuality; that power bleeding, as leaking her blouse, our jeans moist with contagions: that needled kite, as often our brains, that turtle morphing through vitamins—as drizzle-mizzle, or Cajun cultic air, our Danes inflaming with Jews—as omic music, this furious flame, by sequences becoming sullen artwork.     I hopped a train, to meet a conductor: she rushed us to this engineer: our drums drilled earth, at tears those Buddhists monks, this fever electric by proximity—if but to flourish, while hectic at baptism, at wonders this jasper lightning—as surgical remedy, or mainly a buffer, our cadence mellifluous—as deciduous feelings, healing by aches, sealed for completion—this inner incision, that playful analysis, our crises pleading for effacements: if but by dreams, this year of supernatural(s), our cores seeping into cultic rites; as but a fraction, that trenchant neuroses, as akin to mangled by something unique: that miracle rapture, this fabulous anchor, our songs as plural as forests coyotes—to passion by aches     waxing as for wings     our intuitions trespassing well-mines; as more a soul, at too many answers, while drenched in sullen mire—this liquid destiny     at brains by loses     at years passed a radical cave—that florid harmonic     that trenchant clarinet     our minds falling into saxophones—where religion wails     this knitted reality     to greet by winds this conglomerate: that six-sense, that seventh miracle, encased in five wounds—to flour hope, while reality bleeds, at treasures this historical electricity: that mystic shaman; that mystic name; those by arts disputing claims] but tug to pull, rapt’d in trembles, nudged by inner forces—this bleak investigation, or too wise for Jesus, while folklore rattles novitiate cages: this cryptic spark; that inner landmine; this cultic abbreviation—as pure water, this web by particles, to tears that tragic tunic; where love is law, as parted by seas, while one becomes suspicious of existence.    

I Sense Wings

We exhaust love, by coiling love, where love requires flitting—this miracle crystal, our Jewish candles, our terrorized souls—insofar, as redemption, that candid mirror, this inner abandonment—to scud over ice, or trek volcanoes, by treasures to endure resistance—those flinty caves, seated in muddy pools, at rapture a series of languages: our daughters to tethers, influenced by tale-agents, fleeing for crawling while guiding siblings: our mother’s dream, at peace, this home of star gems—but a tunnel to souls, this faucet of prose, as torn those radical years: to forgive a shadow, while bleeding darkness, this gift of tortures that life.     We attempt balance, our self-reflection, our chalkboards speaking our language—as never an illness, this event by truths, where life becomes exceedingly tendentious; but this to kites, as admiring beauty, seated in a den of portraits: those scented cigars; that eighteenth century scotch; that rattling air-conditioner; if snakes to gardens, than gardens to mice, our great grandchildren molding our departures: that mystic soul, as meditated life, that grandmother debating deeds—as lived a brain, so encouraged an ethicist, by terrors wrestling our father’s dilemmas: that speaking clock; such congested pash; our realist natures: if but a ceiling, bleeding our crises, this thing for disaster’s tragedy—as courted a butterfly, to flit through galaxies, such incumbent failures.     I sense a giant, this swan of souls, at cadence this inner dimension—to frolic through winds, jogging at pace, while culling out colors: this miracle grieving; that science to heart; this spirit as rapidly undisclosed: those fretted features; this wandering through deserts; by tempers a bit concerned: such tense to sadness, this pursuing of activities, our petals wilting for replacement—while flying freely, at treasures for courses, fumbling through that gentle atmosphere—those days to singing, as alive a current, by each fuse a legacy—those enthralling novels, where life is drifting, that trenchant fan-fantasy; or arts to Star Wars, those outstanding characters, our hearts to space peering at novelties: indeed, by swans; indeed, through magic; as more to reason those somber feelings: our existential; our wrenching psychologies; our lines as paper thin—as never this life, climbing through portals, at wants this atypical excitement—that world as flowing, our lights as running, our hearts as freedom—where arts are gems, our parents are astronauts, our dialogues are German Shepherds—this soul-fire, those respected experts, our territories requiring acrylic phantoms: that riddle in time; this daughter by flits; our friends as treasures—to bleed through threads, as composed to reciprocate, while maintaining our perspectives.     I feel sorrows, as one built by humanity, wafting as clawing up mountains: that brief of mistakes; that delicate grandmother; our family such as pulled asunder: to see for purple, this royal woman, while at terrors to sacrifice: this place in souls; this space your heart; to realize, We give to receive: but such are souls, planning for swimming, as sensing tremendous sacrifice. I adjure a soul—to live freedom, while at flights through physics: learn through practice; sense through seasons; commit if laws are fair—this place in brains, as feelings dispute, again a heart to waft—this non-erasable, this planet of textures, this space of permanent particles—where aches admire, our similar faces, at tales to realize this repeatable nature.               

Whiplash Tragedy

I play for hearts     a tragedy off-course     where probability invades Iraq; this platinum kiss, those porcelain manikins, that high-rise skycraft: if but to perish, staring at another man’s dreams, a sad bit inflamed with seduction: that Caucasian scream, those florid hips, by breasts for soul-patience; as flew our coupes, this caged infatuation, while at tears to daydream. I ache intelligence, at rivers as mediocre, by fantasies this memoir woman; where death lives, as existence breeds, our gothic fingers. It comes to built(s), this classic gem, at terrors to suggest he may have slept; indeed, this literature of chaos, but to sylphs as lazy pajamas, whereas, too human to love acacias. I broke silence; so manic as feral, while never an email; so more to rejection, as fleeing through videos, at admiration this haunted house; to need clarity, while balanced as dejected, to feel with joy this psych’s temperaments: that scratching by scalp; that internal whisper; that sitting while to trances our woman’s vulva: that treacherous womb; that gorgeous womb; that essence through time a cadent odor: if but to live, speeding through yellows, as torn to remember that perfect color.      I dance purple     to live through burgundy     our glasses filled with beige; that crooked self, at terrors to adore myth, where unsaid treasure has voided our names; this casual picture, as leaning forward, to cut with ice-cycles this warm furnace; as nevermore, this pash by brains, to come by office a tare insane—this casual perspective, to smell but feet, while all to cadence this vixen’s portrayal.     I must to live     as must to perish     while, nonetheless     I reside in realities: that hectic movement     that crossing of legs     to keep perspective this fractured atmosphere.     I loved a dream, as captured a scar, to invest in steep remembrance: that griffin bleeding     that cygnet aflame     by thumps to memory our infant’s fame; as wailed our feelings, as struck at emotions, to come to terms where damage lives; our achy daughters, their frigid fathers, this force in woes as born explosive; as mothers cry, while steeped in resurrection, this touch of brains floored through dejections; as perished a friend, this inner psychologist, to witness this sky-arc rebirth. [I sense love, this place of sewing, where forever seems impermanent; this edgy swan, our cagey parents, this grand-soul infusion: that trepid air-sign, those intrepid symbols, that course to works as fleeing reality: if but to breathe, at terror our compass, to feel with life this intractable essence—where mother resounds, as final that claim, while born to lights a tad bit insane; but this to life, our immortal scar, this sin to withdrawal affections: our French inheritance; our souls to wings, this space in arcs that slippery thump].     I write in pleasures; I compose in pains; I’m lost to fancies while born to logic—this infant whining; our souls to millennia; this frank disposition our hearts; as but to flee, as flung our brains, this brink to life as torn afar to fevers. 

Forbidden Fires

Oh for legacies, as one final dance, addicted by chance a trillion dollar woman—if but to fate, gated by wires, at cadence our wedded spirits: that bed of Care Bears; that Princess pillow; that off-white as pinkish nightmare—our quilts to souls, but a pill to ecstasy, seated our Isley’s on repeat: those crystal faucets, such by million dollar carpets, that furniture bleeding its secrets. I feel possessed, chased by staring, showcasing such agonies: by wavy gardens, or purple snails, palming French spiders—where blossoms suffocate, this needed possession, while at terrors with reality: those beige pearls; that set of diamonds; those porcelain Smurfs—as cared his soul, drooling for bawling, too concerned by elation—as funeral chi, such elastic souls, to form such equations: that liquid vinyl; that concrete water; our cloves to hours at debates; as mother laughs, too steep our cult, embodied verses our inspirited woes—to glow by radiance, our beings invaded, while to gander afar: our inner whereabouts; this tugging for breath; our odors by Calvin Klein.     I knew deaths, while frequented by life, that neckline a sickle to brains: that gothic lingerie; that thousand dollar bronze; that polish as borne to disguise traumas: if but to parrots, those twins at loveseats, our settees expressing by jests—this miracle war, at cares by red hair, too evolved for mere a poet: those long verses; those radical lines; that paradox as to awaken that vintage spirit—where father cries, as lives a son, where wine becomes communion—this inner raid, that stern resistance, at turns to morph into leviathan: that unlocked soul, as a scientist to cores, where unsaid illnesses carry particular properties—to laugh a churn, while peering at videos, to want for biblic this immortal secret: those Beyoncè eyes; by Rihanna’s hips; by Washington’s graces—these faces of passions, a dove to circles, our prose to symbols—as lived her life, that billion dollar man, those lines to brains at cadence—where riches trickle, as encased in time-capsules, too expensive by humans—this trepid dream, as aware by gestures, at curses this wind as anti-normalcy; where pigeons gather, pestering orangutans, our images seeping into our membranes—that other hemisphere, seeping into neurons, this electric portrait as reality: that cagey soul, engrossed in bashfulness, but to terrors our annihilations; where loins shatter, as plaid our checkers, as platinum our chessboards; this vest by crimes, pulling at emotions, too cold to submit through a thousand rounds; that arrow to synaptic-gaps, that flood of serotonin, that mixture of dopamine—our years to carriers, those signals as motivations, these messengers flitting through atmospheres: if but to live, as confused that sultry voice, this minx by nature cleaving to deserts: those high-rise wings, such debated choreography, by motion to move resisting gravity—that tug for pulling, this pirate’s blueprints, our luxuries by forbidden fires—to desire travesty, as reaching photography, our picture-perfect tragedy.

I know for breathless, this endless lust-seat, our sky-bled turquoises—if but to signal, that fiery ache, but a chance in time this outer reading—where Prada mourns, encased in terrors, our Nikes to trekking buoyant rivers; or more to three inches, as spoke historians, this cautious treading of atmosphere: that long farewell, as shadowed our returns, where entrance hypnotized perception—this treacherous secret, as misrepresentation, where serpents kiss—that flagrant essence, too as bold to die, while at necks a quarter through centuries.     It lives for seconds, to die radically, this predicament gripping poets: that priestess heart; that poetess soul; this living where exhaustion begins to peak: as but a soul; or more by seduction; this encrypted sylph.      

Feeling Fire’s Frequency

Welcome to blessings     this furious fever     to touch an unwedded spirit—where mother dies, as souls famish, this accordion hell-fire: that locomotive, racing through homes that shattered wine glass— if but to perish, at hopes to live, this triumph as Dante’s energy— where grandma tenders, this steep affection, our daughters to caves bleeding by wells. I fraction infinity, too concerned with grammar, reading into voltage terror—that inner storm, that surge of ice, this feeling to rumble a beating heart: if but to live, our existential, frantic through metaphysics. I must to love, as bated to hate, where precious our drums at service—this immortal charm, to extinguish soul-feathers, while wings to life this mystic part-time; indeed, to courage, our family web, at tears this aunty lost—where fever is entity, as revved to sing, while our engines recite our distance; that tyrannical fire, those longing eyes, this woman too enforced to reckon disaster—as more than ants, this rant of fools, while hell to hearts as bestowing blessings. We came to die, as evolved through living, to perish our great grandchildren.     We could to live, as gifted another’s soul, while at woes that famous wife; this extractive barnacle, those weeds breathing, this touch as much too extensive: our broccoli with beef; our spicy shrimp fried rice; that flavored broth in War Wonton soup: if but to live, abroad a name, while realizing but sex to diminish—this frantic kiss, as much to loses, while souls unsaid court our whispers: this evil arc, that cadent spark, this memory to self as too explosive: if but to cringe, this clump by grass, that squirrel so near pleading for pistachios; in such to flourish, while beating venom, at course to seclude another catastrophe: this bleeding ear, our inner voiceprints, this sheep at hurries to run astray: our theological, as metaphorical, this place in self without hardcore evidence; as, nevertheless, this achy resilience, as Kierkegaard’s subjective—to pass experience, as pure evidence, so fresh this explosive to kiss our demons; as more to cultures, this maniac lover, while to sit in silence through a tsunami.     I sat at violence; I broke our promise; I lost to me a grand appeal; but this is tortures, this devil bleeding his psyche, this woman pleading our facials: if but to live, this secret granted, while at war with myriad spirits: that deep enchant, to rant with mystics, if but to return to warfare; therewith, lives in silence, this terrific image, at terrors to awaken to unsaid breath. I’ve lived a current, at errors to life, while hectic to recruit a swan: our miracle music; our inter mistyrose, this active soul to cages—as lived a funeral, to incite resurrection, our mentals cleaving to doctrine—where daughters exhale, as forced to claw gravy, where hurt digs its trench. {I love to loses, this inferior soul, while fraught by insecurities; but tragic an earache, at treasures a voiceprint, while seething through Paradise: that instant death, as fluxing through tribunals, to hear with courage a daughter begging his pardon: if but to fly, this mystic chanting, our friends at rituals: that casual husband; that mythic wife; our grandparents slingshot’n energy; as but reversal, to undo a curse, while fleeing for rivaling myriad demons; this place in time, to remember that flame, our organ ramped through abysses; or harps to pregnancies, at Saul for peace, while said rival thrusts his spear; this mystic survival; this cultic reach; our minds to fire}.       

Impassioned by Sienna

We adore by images, so close to agony, as melding deep our river—that sea-chime, those melodramatics, our theatre whining—if but to winds, as grinned a squirrel, our nights seated in another’s personality—this test of crimes, while steeped in probability, to haul a shifty soul. It was lights by love, this purple sun-fire, our phoenix divorcing our funerals—as cried by oceans, at sails for grandeur, alive a cryptic feature—where passions flame, a magpie as symbol, our hearts but to frolic as ferrets: our cultic brains, so enlove with life, as ever so distant from life—this musical trombone, our flitting sax, this case at souls filled by sulfur; to love eternal, where eyes set to droop, our Smurf-perfect insights—or tears as Care Bears, our enriched emotions, but a cartoon trekking mental tracks; to die by feelings, as living by cadence, a thread achy with enchantment: those liquid thoughts; that urbane elocution; those rivets encircling our heart-pressure—as torn a vandal, that account of bishops, threshed by mystic rivalries—those testy seaquakes, that wind from afar, this pleasure frosting our air-quarters.   

Those shores to antics, our sea-geese as signs, flickering ranch-like popcorn—where turquoise eyes wail, while encased in jails, our dialogues becoming deciduous fires—as winks a dolphin, our tales by beauty, a bit frustrated to master existence: that acorn temperament; that seagull wisdom; those seconds to considering those fleeting ships; as purposed his life, those born to passions, where prose becomes occupation—as ever to arts, this mongoose disguise, striking while ingesting venom: our museum brains, filtered through burgundy minds, at moons bleeding our red rivers—this again to die, while bled through gestures, to arrive pleading for sanctions.

It was pure ecstasy     nibbling wafers     living by communion; this frantic soul, our inner chemistry, our spirit-biology—as lives sky-sparks     this autumn leaf     by infusion that sea of scents: if but perfection, by troubled cadence, we exist as partial—this segment of crayons, while etched towards soul-breaks, where attraction cries to Crosses: that itchy insight; that dangerous intellect; this thing by morals our guiding-posts: that high falling, as stepping staircases, while flitting through chemistry; that inner mountain, those foreign faces, as half but asleep to flying; where agony bleeds, this outer torment, sipping for rising through infirmities.    

Within Our Chambers

I love our turmoil     finding something precious     while traits die to considerations; this mystic moon, our gloom to shadows, this woman he couldn’t parish—as born a vandal, while becoming human, this clove that spark—as teary-eyed enchanted, flexing through rivers, our daughter as a protégée—to fathom not, this form of entrance, where humans form through resistance: that ruby kite, those hectic grandparents, this love showered in diamonds—those gingerbread cookies, that yogi watching, our proverbial inheritance; to cut salami, even a ghost of cheese, spread over unleavened wafers—that sudden thump, this internal music, as courting to see that smile. I digress, seated at this fever, to love this space in time; where violins crave, this immortal passion, to have excitement ten hours into prayer; at tours with love, this vanilla chip, our pistachio delicacies—this mix of darkness, infused with psalms, at tyranny pleading affections: that contradiction, when sectioned near surface, to imagine this steep affectation—where husbands cry, as flying through abysses, our horrors conflicted by sky-roads.     I love freely     as platonic our inversion     while anger ensues—this colony as historical     our pride as Africa     our libraries as Europe—whiles torn contagions, or radical attractions, to want that fatal climax—or thrust by spears     our ultra sunrise     where swans cultivate immortal fountains.     I ache with violence, laughing at our overseer, made humble that second through loses; that devilish compassion, that immortal psych, those therapists fleeing through sky-clouds—as one to cherish, or one to perish, this internal as sublime: that casual death, this finger to purpose, that woman as so much our mother: if but those years, to meet unsaid faces, while giving until death inverted—I’d love suspicion, those carnival conventions, our hours to dying through rebirths; but said is fiction, this convict of souls, by aches this theologian; where mother cries, as forbidden to love, this space in souls cleaving to that kind gesture.     I love this swan     as needing to give     where affections become motivations; this ambitious troll, at mother with silence, our contagion to excavate Death Valley; this scroll of souls, that Zenist watching, our mystics thrusting this brain—where poets flourish, too concerned with proprieties, at Sophia with vengeance.     I’ve died abandonment, scooped by psychs, as a tare too involved with Wisdom: that cagey friend, as electric this heart, while mornings become ritualistic; that psychotic feature, that manic man, this portrait arriving through sheer affliction; to see you dance, free of turmoil, while at love with cadence; wherewith, a scar, this power through souls, to gestalt a tsunami.     I caught attention, to plant a blessing, while refusing to watch us perish: this edgy mystic, this crying swan, this mother too sacred to die.     I love conventions, built in sands, our terror-dome sprawled before onlookers—as pure insanity, this reaching Wisdom, while grandfather plots for happiness: that tickling gift; those flurries as jewelry boxes; that armoire inverted with a curse—if but to live, this hearted event, while at courage to battle demons.     I know a friend, as never a thought, while quick to warfare; that inner dimension, as crazed a lunatic, too poised to discern; while hearts flourish, this mystic music, abused for bruised singing divinity.     I know a man, afflicted with lusts, but terrors to hearts infused with Jerusalem: this kleptomaniac, this scouring through graves, our ambitions bleeding successions: if but to perish, this wealth as grieving, our daughters moved to redemption: our achy addicts; too infused to perish, while love dangles pleading rebirths—where mothers mangle, those steep illusions, as to guide a child’s visions.               

I’ll Never Remember: as Pure Contradiction: Therefore, as Pure Trauma

I feel confused, as nearly comatose, where screams wailed out, God: this feverish woman, our candent cries, as becoming our horror contusions.     It was horrid colors, as abrasive matrimonies, our paradox, our candescent illusion—where gramps cried, as filled this music, while granny strayed from delusion.  I died to seas, as promiscuous bees, while hope punctured membranes; as beauty was foreign, this cagey widow, at tyranny with reflection—our broken dishes, that bleeding freezer, this living-room sprawled with groceries—that man as knights, to thrust while leaving, this deep concern of seeing traces; as, nevertheless, this impure vengeance, where naivety courted a vacant friend: those lovers by trails, our brilliance to curtains, this soul to harvest a crush—as shattered asunder, that motel illusion, where ghosts affronted said soul.

I loved a vision: I adore our child: I had to confess that I knew your name: this passion of fools; as drooled a crocodile; by face this alligator, a tare allergic to those mystics.

It was oven-city, this chamber of gas, our adventured Holocaust; but never a sound, or never apologies, just more to kissing buttocks; while men would die, as women perished, this cadence as more delusion. I saw your face, discolored in gravy, while relishing in such disgrace—this paranoid soul, buffed with Scotch-Brite, to redeem returning to snail-paste.

We die laughing, at tyranny our reflections, while said laughter becomes inverted: this kosher looseness; that vibrant loser; our seed to flights by saving face; where anger is supreme, as if filled by innocence, while brooks sway in your favor: as, Woe my soul, this birth-born dove, where unsaid souls have ruined the Lord’s mansion.

It comes to deaths, while holding contempt—I’ll never let go of reality: this spacial queen, at tides with oceans, this living Proverb.

I’ve wiped my mouth     the dining room is set     I’ll love at hopes for redemption;

but this is atrocious, this fume in souls, while mirrors break our courage; as if to breathe, this guilt of frenzies, while attitude becomes this fiery fortress.

I loved depression     as most to die     where said dejection grows intrepid—this furious fire, while father divorces—any notion of foul delusions: this miracle current, that woman that died, this turn of events leaving to return—where daughters flee, this wealth of truths, while craving a said illusion; but hell to truths, where Love seeks purpose, our years debating reality.                                    

We Fight Our Pains, Forgetting That Feeling By Love

I’m deep to fantasy     elusive by cadence     sudden a cautious thump; such cryptic music, by feathers our souls, peering at daughter legacies; this crying wolf, that inner coyote, our theologies battered by morals: if but sensations, as divorced of desires, I’d fly aloof to treasures; where hearts laugh, as infused by fire, this overwhelming familiarity.     I clash abroad, at volts to Africa, leering but tortures at Latin lusts—this bakery soul, fluffing our dough, too enchanted to ache through niceties: as argues canines, or rages chimpanzees, our essence inflamed with promise—this terrific soul-pain, as more to brain-chains, as upfront as panicky sea lions: our coils slanted, at tears for concerns, a bit offended where attention flourishes: that steep control, as laughs our favor, while torments break satin pillows.     I’d ache to love     if love thrusts purple     as mourns our souls that trepid daughter: our tepid encounters, that Brazilin minx, our terrors flowered through that Asian lawyer—if but to die, affected through chaos, a bit so effective by hatred; those Indian chants, that yogic instructor, our perils to sailors as non-existent—where money bleeds, as diamonds torture, while jewels lament—that terrible concern, as becoming myth, while hearts are at cadent cliffs: this leaping sadness, our internal war, where passions exult this common religion: if but to hearts, those glossy eyes, changed by admiration: this Rihanna fever, where none might fathom, this rift in souls as forever detached—that welkin mystic, that leprechaun psych, as life by therapeutic motives—that gentle wiccan, this tragic warlock, that psychologist bleeding madness: if but to live, such terrible magic, such pagans ramped through Jerusalem—as captured that Light, or infused that Darkness, as both to whales this hectic discipline—our disciple cults, as occults at honor, while mind-control distorts this inner cathedral: as but neuroses, while anxious a certain thread, as each possesses a similar cadence—those subtle nuances, that tickle by clouds, this falling while white rocks rattle—in turn to perish, a preacher beneath his pulpit, a doctor confronted by otherworldliness—where mystics shutter, as to shiver silence, where trembling becomes this appropriated signal—that achy passion, that laughing professor, those signs as symbols of therapy: that conscious jest; that slight churn by necks; that placement of feet—as torn to mystery, this esthetic psychology, our treasures becoming neurotic: by pure features, to know by powers, this thinking agent at hearts abroad—to silence intentions, while awakened to madness, this spirit leaps by faces—that deep inversion, our minds at souls, this place in self as demented reality—that casual whisper, that terrible tremble, this person soaring through energy: to speak this language, this inner person, while souls are afraid of existing as brokenness.     I sense by kindred(s), our mutual existence, this steep concern with vetting this cryptic reality: that thump that waits, those persons our consciousness, this link at travels by zenic laws: that sudden shift, as to have been by joys, while sudden to knees feeling agony: if but such music     as dying its course     to return to spaces prior to wombs: this edgy emotion, to thrust while astride, where hearts thump at sudden responses; to love through churns     so steep this purpose     as mentioned a though that cultic queen.

I felt a fireball     this event by passions     at once     fraught by fears; this cordial monster, as effects our energies, while terror to arcs that flame: if but to actions, this electric yogi, by cries reaching through mystic cisterns; as individuals, this chess by wars, to thump by remembrance; as lakes to brains, or brains to souls, this fever as born casual allies—those glacier events, seated in warm lagoons, while at purpose to uproot those false impressions—if but receptive, as leaping through comets, by ashes to redeem this immortal sequence. 

By Pleasures To Fly

We miracle lights, to sense our texture, evolved in passions: that neckline trauma; those legs as majesty; this heart torn by nuances; to live forever, this immortal slant, to realize by daughters—this field bleeding, our genetics ruined, that voice balanced in sulfur; to courage our aches, while bestial a dream, to maneuver a montage of feelings; indeed, I see, this mixture of measures, to fathom with minds lost to arcs: this furious delivery, to sense that tear, as adjusted through ethics: this cagey woman; this flower as sky-leafs; our today(s) a bit enchanting; where anger simmers, as stews percolate, while illness becomes appealing; this injurious fire, as far too many languages, that resume bleeding divinity; as told to perish, at wars our rebirths, to chisel this inveterate distance—to love by grit, while silenced to bones, where spouses irritate our loyalties: this fractured brilliance; that brain’s extravagance; this luxury feeling loneness; to kiss a frog, at braces for healing, where colleagues bat a winking eye.     Instead to purpose, this arena of souls, to find with traffic this impasse—insomuch, to death, this proud soldier, a bit too resilient for instruction; but fathom life, that hardcore mother, imbuing her son with treasures—as lived his soul, a dead-man breathing, to come to know-how a bit too early: that terrible woman, to cut his lungs, seated with lovers as high as laughter that fabulous treachery, as exposed his arteries, while daughters pray for a safe recovery: if but to live, as singing your glory, I’ll die a man too exposed to machination: that treble ache, as kissed a cypress, where said mystics buffered survival: if but to carry, this feverish woman, while at love a different return. It comes to tyranny, this music bleeding, our mahogany trefoils—this clove sparked, our hearts dark, this murky but pensive lagoon—to enter by course, at love by moments, to suddenly disappear: this inner feeling, as never his kind, while at love this fabulous fracture; where mother warns, as grandparents dance, this feeling, at once, with ghosts; to see us grinning, while filled with sorrow, this hope for our glorious tomorrow—that edgy daughter, that cliff for mothers, that terrific step-father—to hate this curse, while warranted to perish, but hopeful towards justice. I feel a mistake; I chime a river; I sized our brooks; to know that mother, a lady of tresses, to passion a tsunami; that languishing grandma, those languishing realities, that hurtful dissatisfaction; but more to psychs, as lived this life, a bit too concerned with wars—as lives a casualty, to become a triumph, those days to honor built upon shame.     I flurry with pressures, typing as to perish, enlove with this merry-go-round—as feeling your brains, that abstract sentence, to know for this certain type of death; to fury majesty, this trickle of spirits, that daughter alive a heart-dungeon; where mothers laugh, as too cold a season, to dwell in private leviathans; at pressures, this mystic, sensing this deep reality, while at hearts a friend: if but to surf, accused with breath, too steep in theology: that finicky marathon, as repeating dogma, while heresy comes with thought abroad this box: those porcelain chimes; that flimsy carpet; this rajah fleeing for barking at invisible visions; insomuch, to live, as grafted in science, this religious atheist; insofar, at jest, to reckon this soul, as to desire a naked catastrophe; where fathers grin, while sipping meadows, a bit too emphatic with silence: our soliloquy bleeding; our wives coddling; our hearts in souls a bit too weary; but life to bones, as prophecy to hearts, this world fraught with poets; as told his throat, at treachery with life, our wills enchanted.     It could to die, as never it lived, this infamous shrine: his ears aching; his hips damaged; our eyes remorseful—as to fix an illness, while incurring an illness, where said illness destroys our fixings.              

Freedom: Notwithstanding, Outcomes

We need intelligence     this concave mirror     if but to nurture a mentor; this electric blanket, this fearless baseball, as surpassing home-plate—where fire becomes adventure, our cygnets to rings, that intrepid oasis—to mould his arc, this furious season, as placed in baskets: that loaf of cadence, that sensory wine, our pulpits flushed by mesmerism: our deep lagoons, as flavored with cranberries, this sipping by marsh: that inner mayfly; that pirate’s feast; this mental computer assassinated; to cry vengeance, at tyrannical mirrors, while fury imbues inner resonance.     We ponder captions, this brainy soul-bite, that person beyond erasing: those children at swings; that chasing and feisty duck; those squirrels concerned with picnics—to run its courage, those itty bitty tentacles, while devouring strawberries.     We shift our sails, embedded in graves, at feast this heart adrift our vows—to love with passion, or die with vengeance, as to put to shame those cruel acts: this dark and gruesome valley; our meadows reciting psalms; this person aching for clarities: those fallen mountains; our latrines as spokesmen; our women magicians harboring our penchant hearts: if but to actions, as flushed in fevers, to excavate while seeping into trenches; that faraway cry, as decorated molehills, our incents betraying our fervor; where Labradors chuckle, our knuckles to bellies, by chance a household ladybug; as mother mourns, adverse to beauty, while haunted by appropriate behavior. We ache for currents, as infused by currents, to want imaginative realities: that wretched perfectness; those tall-fountain eyes; that energy by coitus such confusion: this elf’s ears, that fairy’s nose, such by thighs to grip a gnat.     It comes with adventure—to perish at rebirths, while to flourish those years to maintenance; as ever we sculpture, whereat, we puncture—this heir to scientific religion; indeed, to push it, where others fathom it, while at wars to subdue it—that particle grain, to expel truths, while sealed beneath this flaring abyss: this kiss he wanted; those appealing buttocks; that waist designed for tortures: to shift winds, this fever those arks, where seas are undergirt by passions: those legs laughing, our grammar failing, this nervous chuckle—to have that soul, if but those seconds, too cold to utter, I love you.     We seek brainiacs, if but human souls, our psychologies clashing; this art by wolves, reaching for dragonflies, at awe with hummingbirds: if but to grin, those gracious arms, where tomorrow promises hope; moreover, that curse, our darkest secret, this cadence for wrangling: that brilliant remark; that air of panic; this bridge too close to collapsing; therewith, those calves, so strong at wars, a bit forbidden his mind; to push passed love, while rooted that net by love, as seasoned to perish claiming love—as pure convention, as never a manuscript, at perils to run those islands—where hearts greet, at tempers to fly, this feeling by pure resonance.     [I never forget, while we barely outlive—this fever for forsaken’d treasures: that delicate forehead; those silenced toes; those mitts for seasons that voice by diamonds—as cried by attentions, while running for deserts, at peace those calming shoulders; to have those brains, while submitting to capture, where mutuality becomes our knitted knees: this person living, as sipping communion, as to nibble unleavened wafers; whereas, we perish, to whereas, we live, our mirrors bearing humanity].    

{I apologize for love: I apologize for sinking; I apologize for needing: indeed, this measure by souls, as forced to excel, while contradiction confuses souls. It seems askew, to forgive by choice, while others become wretched vessels. It seems unfair, to want by design, this inner kingdom, while forfeiting crucial tenets; but this is warfare, where casualties are discounted, while we cleave to persons that agree by a bias language: so more to freedom: this freedom to live: this freedom to ignore; where schisms brew, as persons perish, while depression soars}.

Rainbow Havoc, Prior to Resurrection

I’m sick to soreness, this tapping into, where glory resides; this mischief heart, as steeped in Jeremiah, this crying Lamentation; abroad at Jericho, subdued by Shiloh, at terrors roaming Jerusalem.     I’ve died to sense it     this place exceeding brains     at horrors at peace with trembling; that country arc, our sins in Solomon, our wars through David; to ache in violence, this yogic arc, at wrestles with insistence; to have but bread, those victuals to myriads, our souls delighted to partake—this feverish heart-quake, our daughters to songs, our blue jays to mesmerism—if but to harness, at needs to fly, this cult adrift our membranes.     I cursed a fig, as to embrace a blessing, while too infused to conjure such spirits: that trickle bleeding, those days to fasting, this imprint seated in genetics; as cried a monster, this Pauline soldier, a bit to forces while driven. We mourn for Huldah, this speaker rarely sung, while praising Debora: our tears to swans; our voices to winds; our aches by mystic tyranny: to purchase illusion, this petit leviathan, at circles with crocodiles—or that silent heart, as dying for mercy, where our firstborn mourns our insanity; this inner parent, as wishing success, while grandparents soar in spirit—that rumination, as contemplation, effaced but driven this legacy: our filthy rags, our seraphim nightmares, those coals placed to psyches—as cried his liver, peering at glorious flesh, this woman too extinct not to breathe.     We love by hearts, this rainbow of thoughts, our inner person at flames; indeed, to venture, pleading forgiveness, as forever lost; for soul-fire is cruel, while alert to panic, at furry this furious galaxy—to come to pressure, for truths sung, while untold a life to varnished lies. I’ve come to sing, at hearts with Nathaniel, fleeing through caves from Saul; this king as tainted; this sword as witness; our refusal to kill our adversary: if sighed an echo, those sparks pleading insanity, as to return pleading sanity—that casual death, at kef with sin, as trespassing inner secrets—that space of gods, leering at women, as to mate that Nephilim treason—oh for curses, as oh for mercy, our sons of passions—to harness forever, as clear a cloud, at tender concerns this woman of wars; where souls vanish, as akin to deaths, this dungeon in graves our resurrection—where fools cherish, this inner arm, to wave through credence a potent scar; wherewith, our outer delights, that pail of kiwis, our brains at terrors.     [I adore Love     as pausing to exhale     at thoughts that vision of Smurfs—where life was agony, too simple to discern, a bit concerned by present frustration; as Love is ghosts, this feeling lingering, that fairer skinned vixen; as, too, that old sensation, while aching foundations, to realize we become fundamentalists: if days are sung, as opposed to monitored, while heaviness destroys countenance; this fire breeding, as sworn kleptomania, while sensing this distress. It tears ligaments, as evoking compassion, while daughters muse through sphinxes—that beige credenza, those velvet cadenzas, our tones perceived as innocence—whereto, this fatal insight, to vanish through patience, where mothers abort discomfort].     I sang a song; I blazed in fury; but I never lied: this ape in souls, as dies our cobras, while punished for soaring by Spirit; this atypical anger, where all was lost, while silent culprit ventured to continue that course; this melic heart-pressure, as songbirds mourn, while said culprit mingles that nation: if but to flourish, as hated a soul, a bit to recognizing complexion; that mad family, at playing pretend, while living distraught; whereat, are distressors, even duress, while two become sober monsters.    

Symbols Encase Existence

I see riches, that outer camouflage, while disguised by treasures—this beige Fleetwood, those Porsche membranes, our Ferrari engines—as metaphorical pains, at tension with Bentleys, afforded a billion dollar Cross; to ache his soul, or awaken in sweat, pieced by ghetto realities—to surf his life, a million dollar iron, if but to appeal to wrinkles—that faraway dream, leering at Fantasia, a soul memorized in fantasies—those deep delusions, as to outlive sorrow, at cadence a soul prior to acceptance—that exceptional fever, those exceptional women, as to birth a minute through sacrifice. We tinted Chryslers, aired out in cloves, a bar but occasions so wild—to pause at names, this Zenist Priest, as lives our contradiction.     I’m localized, becoming his soul, this inverted person: that river glisten; that afterglow finish; our toes to legs trekking our Savannahs: this musical charm, as lives our mystics, this group of yogis admitted shamans; but life to riches, this flamboyant essence, staring at human souls—to carve through poverty, as intimate with sludge, while grafted through porcelain imagery: that antique bracelet; that pinky toe ring; that thousand dollar steak—as blacktie ingested, those alligator hats, to infuse that young warrior; but art to visions, that meek conversation, our culturalized inventions—to palm an infant, as to bless Ka, this portal illusion through Ba—as lived her life, abbreviated through traumas, at brooks speaking deeply—this slant he owns, while afforded one curse, this intricacy seeping into crevices—where songs are sessions, this golden guitar, this trillion dollar organ—to cut her mind, nibbling baguettes, while ingesting reasons to invest—in more than life, this strength to wars, accustomed to winning through losing; that vicious cycle, by love a vicious reality, to exclaim such beauty through travesty—our Dooney & Bourke bags, our leather Coach jackets, that Chanel intoxication—as racing through measures, a whiff of Eternity, a bout with Obsession: if but to fly, at tender concerns, this elaborate ritual by swans—to thump through oceans, as mighty as swords, to thresh asunder—this waking destiny, our tiring successions, this ache that calls for silence.     I envision, Love     this warrior creature     too delicate for reality; where souls asses majesty     while hearts seep into self     this space by resilience: if but to Love, this feminine soldier, this trudging through marsh—those lands of whispers, as cultured our nightmares, as adored our Paradise; this moment to reason, as lives our souls, while others strain a bit by curse—this livid song     our interaction     our autistic jitters: if hearts seize     this space in souls     to liquidate this flannel of mysticism—if hearts die     as born through rapture     to exist as entities—where purple parades by souls     as burgundy whelms our moons     if but this second as reoccurring; indeed, our minds, flurrying through temperaments, alive in cadence—this inner ache, as soaring through channels, to conjure another person’s ghosts—this secret to life, as contagious feelings, while purposed to defend our castles—this steep defensive, where resistance becomes hellish, while streaming sutures a segment of wounds…this ark of riches, our doves to return, as fervent otherwise...while seeking land, a bit evasive, this symbol of minds.

Peering Into Crevices

It comes to light, this favorite secret, known by the multitude of words; as hiding from self, while others perceive—this warped fixture; that type of thinking, at tales to wilderness, or favored as our muddy lagoon—where clarity pauses, as pure proclivity, if must we sit in stillness—this activity by brains, to float by bodies, this type of looking at self; that morbid charm, that bowel of grapes, our taste-buds craving sweets—as tender a toothache, our yearly cleansing, where children desire truths…that outer anger     those shards embedded in shag     our pillows soaked in saliva…to come to terms     those seconds as immortal     our weekly apologies; where cried thitherto,     sensing steep obscurity     reminded about family Ziplocs.     We chase tendencies, our carpets our soulprints, to meet ourselves racing through dreams; that velvet mirror     those mutable gestures     whereto,     our harvested expectations: this existential, so concerned with ontology, a series of scholars absorbed by abstracts: our logic symbols; our peeking at metaphysics; our onlookers accusing us of scripturalizing—if but to exist, those philosophical branches, but a child running through ghettoes…as such to life, this inversion of traits, as becomes our nervous ticks: to sing of justice, where gavels are aching, while we support family…this tale of lectures, our hands trembling, as never by thought, She’s filled with ghosts. It comes to shadows, as purely psychological, our personhoods at wars with brains: if could to live, as quite bestial, while void of utter rebukes: our socialization, as unending modification, where one deduces this family chasm: that far-ago vision, to envisualize harmony, by cringes to realize destruction…as asymmetrical, aligned in misprints, totally oblivious over coffee with wafers—this dirge of nightingales, that sad blue jay, our internet fiascoes—to nurture affection, but always wrong, where others skip by an inner tune: this right of souls, where compromise spells union, while alienation speaks to a frightened heart…to find for love, this passionate lightning, while thundering through existence…to possess this feeling, as knowledge points to dysfunction, where learning reveals those myriad inconsistencies; as remembering life, while fleeing life, to build some type of cocoon; where mother’s secluded, as father’s boxed in, while we remain hidden from this inner story.  We come to lights, fretting our secrets, our minds at warfare; or more to clarity, as parents got it right, while hearts flourish by success.        

Becoming Familiar

Such casual friction, this demon of angels, our phoenix by a lion’s body—where dreams are fiction, by realist particles, such fever to abort feelings; this miracle drift     our poke-a-dot shadows     our atypical archetypes—as furious visions, by electric volts, such language to agree, I know you; this beige certitude, as uneasy witnesses, a tale too subjective for doubters—those green molehills, our Solomon addictions, this pleasure indebted to capturing portraits: as lived romance, by flame aching silence, by wires embedded elation—as curious textures, that abrasive wind, feeling for falling through trauma: that angular lie, our palms gripping nails, a bit strategic concerning existence: this deep absurdity, this pushing of machinery, our mountains remaining powerful.     It could to life, our psychical horderves, at peace to rekindle peace—that luxurious tactic, as claimed his thoughts, while one was utterly nonchalant; this feeling of passions, by such intrusion, to realize a fading account: this torrid agenda     as horrid emotions     where pains come with flatness; as a feeling kills, to ease but seconds, where we are addicted to absence. [I felt sensation     a tyranny of volts     at solace to ignore names; this type for healing     to enjoy irritation     as flitting thoughts: such burgundy passions     devoid of laughter     captured by this achy seriousness: that steep travesty     as producing innocence     where one is eager to speak; indeed, our paradox, becoming our existence, to feel with pleasure such steep discomfort—as agonizing feelings, to purpose our dens, this space in thoughts as pure indenture: that florid picture, as conjured in visions, this tear affording atypical joys; where mother is absent     as psychs are in motion     this atypical arc peering into reality.     Closure becomes artificial     this phantasmagoria     while such exists as more tangible than concrete—as pure abstracts     this furnace by refinement     to find by source our projections; to hear silence     by excellence a riddle     where brains are majestic activity: if but to deserts     by a conjured oasis     at once,     filled with decisions—this burning hopefulness, as acclaims a star, while jogged in essence].     I remember frustration, this cadence to resistance, by uncanny innocence; this portal to skies, by witness to see, where nevermore becomes an anthem; as killed our souls, a soul purchased by agonies, at joys our indebted careers; as never a call, or ever an email, while souls are at peace.        

[I see fire, as explosive cadence, some remarkable passions—as cried his life, this vengeance by chasing, to meet by flame a liquid arc: if but to fuel, as afflicted softly, this turn through woods peering at cobras—that light flicker, our blue insanity, our red casualties—this carnage of fury, as lived by temperaments, so silent it becomes inverted—that introspection, as furious deserts, while extroverts wrestle with anguish—to keep our minds, as framed in sanity, while something feels askew—that achy brain, those livid cries, our nights to tossing pillows.     I see but feelings, agreed as pure pleasure, a tear to fall as one smiles—our cyan caves, as gray with confetti, our churning through armoires: that casual flippantness, as casual agony, this crane as becoming lighter—if but that moment, as spoken too soon, where floods undergirt our inner theatre.     It comes to life, this steep emotion, while fleeing for crying into portals—our mental locusts, our fretted linguini, that bottle awaiting our weekend tyranny—if but to shake it, if but a moment, we return to havoc—where trauma appears, as pleading address, this need to eradicate promise].      

Swan Reach

We master segments, Love     spaced in articles     lost to imagination; our categorical imperatives, flitting for flying, angered with politics—our lifespan harmonies     infused with chaos     at some sort of mechanism; this intricate fever     at love with vengeance     that treasure that separates us: if but to flourish, agaze’d by blue jays, amazed by songbirds, this feeling by needs our abysses. I adore potential, with patience to sculpture, a bit flat and flabbergasted: this hectic spin, this present sobriety, those ferns our Sierra minds; as losing silence, while merging in essence, our mothers realizing destinies: that religious sister; that insightful grin; our hearts to candent pressures—insomuch, to scud, this radical nuance, at tears our youth is vanishing: that plate of biscuits; those red beans with rice; this love for Zatarain’s products—if but to wings, as soars a swan, our temperamental Blackness: that inner stopwatch; that outer whirlwind; those studies as forging this imperfect ladder—as hearted for fervor, this rain as cadence, our music as mere reflection; to harvest wilderness, while trekking through mountains, to witness others kayaking through sludge : this face as brilliant, that chaotic term, while words become annoyances; but not so young, as floored in success, where dreams are rooted in sky-rises.     We come to roads, peering at signposts, at wonders about direction: that febrile fire, afloat our furies, as but a smidgen of our heart-kites; as, notwithstanding, and forevermore, this passion to read those fan-sparks; indeed, with vengeance, and, moreover, with decoration, where soulprints embed diamonds.     I see lights.     I hear swans.     I touch a feeling.     I smell lavender.     I taste imperfection.     It comes to memory, as to witness our parts, in spite, of feeling indemnity; as souls fretter, where minds are constructed, while many times we miss our objective; this dungeon of mishaps, where heels dig into soil, as to climb while gripping sky-arcs.     I fathom a feeling, spinning for flying, at solace but a second: our casual havoc, as far too averted, as we fancy it means so little.     I promise by life     this inner distraction     where mirrors must be buffered; but more by love, to coddle a thought, where strangers chime as lost souls: this place of kindness, as rooted in compassion, while havoc intends its purpose.      I write in space, as seeing an image, this bright, brave, and brilliant face; where love simmers, as stew is seasoned, where arms reach.     

Deer Tides

I see trefoil eyes, by a trefoil soul, imprisoned by love.     I see hectic emotion, raffled to chaos, sipping for popping with courage; that faraway dream, captured in senseless moments, to flail wrists as crying for mercy: by inner sickness, this marvelous kiss, as a countenance sheds—this other-world, this sky-born movie, our inner cinemas clashing—to love by virtues, this dragoness soul, while dragging our knuckles: such as motion, or more a platypus, while intoxicated by cartoons: those intricate images, this dying in segments, our thoughts becoming invincible.     We become vampires     that electric alpha     forced to revitalize essence; this tragedy as beauty; this traverse as wilderness; such within to become an outer torpedo.     I see presence, this mind curving particles, our souls at cadence: our inner meadows     our brooks with wine     or more our classical miseries; as graphed in blueprints     this trail as exploited     while one watches by tugging inner pegs; that cry from heaven, as purely scientific, while others focus on neuroses.     I sing in silence, revved as cosmos, that sudden instance with budding: those tulip scars; that tragic excitement; where keenness senses imbalance: our equal minds, fraught by inequality, fuming for dying our holy cloth; where daughters watch     to witness adults     that wondering of spiked temperaments: if but to perish, as baptized at church, our intricacies perceiving a blue fox.     I see beauty, this trite expression, for what constitutes beauty—to say it at wants, as if most witted, while one hunches their shoulders; so more to clarity, that fiery smile, as dying his life—where gestures are conscientious, while to proffer a kiss, where advancement leads to sudden withdrawal: that cagey beautification, as gardenias admire, such precision while feeling lonely: that type of flats; that smile as parted with reluctance; insofar, as terror, this mystic dwelling, as if such by words constitute as love—this fabulous waterfall, so fabulous it hurts, so fabulous we perish—as prime example, this forest as difference, that something adorning your soul: that inner essence, as typed upon auras, while calligraphy is running ramped.     I never could, as to witness this truth, a man a bit concerned with status; that radical confession, to feel it at certain points, as to realize we specialize in issuing discomforts: that breath your song; those delicate wrists; that neckline hidden in mane—our country habits, as disguised with stealth, where miracles trickle from your vocals.     I sense worry, as such a device, while traffic is at an impasse; that mile to justice; that daughter to happenstance; our mothers a smidgen too spiteful—where souls cringe, as coming to life, such magical resistance—to build a muscle, at such repetition, while to wander through memories.     I return to life, such words as senseless, to imagine our vestibules: feelings as geckoes; emotions as peacocks; our intellect as signposts—insofar, a scream, this tailed deer, our souls inverted—as furious pains, engrained in adolescence, this space where analyses percolates: if but a fire     to remember through you     while so distant from self-inquiry: this place in minds     as more a scraping     to find with time our mirrors.        

Storehouse Souls

I put prophets aside, to ponder your depth, as eloping with abysses—this fragile aching, such pain to brides, so silent addicted to our chatter; this miracle birth, at church with vengeance, a tare towards warpism.     I admire shrines, detached from emotions, while stranded at feelings: this sensitive man, aching by tears, to regroup sprawling through shift-waves: that beige endeavor, to over-think life, while nudged a turn to outwit proclivities: this raging storm; this slight nuisance; our casualties at sacrifices within—to see by faces, this love for humans, while averted by behaviors.     I’m reading poetry, immersed in psychology, affected by therapeutics—as barely a glimpse, where Mickey Mouse dies, as, nevertheless, this fantasy encouraging flights: our cyan skies; our turquoise emeralds; our phallic imageries: while jumping trains, this infinite voyage, feeling our deaths while boxed in pits: those tears laughing; our souls emerging; such by fire an abstract occurrence.     I saw a smile, by craft those years, by measure a substance—where diamonds would cherish, as melting into liquids, unaccustomed to maniacal rivers—that green algae, that silent whale, that family platypus; indeed, to depths, while chosen to suffer, this life void of a permanent feeling; insomuch, to exult, this cage of fluidity, where rhythm becomes expression—this achy sensation, to sense such beauty, this man at ease with boundaries—as pure neglect, or perfected composure, where one becomes offended; this curvature riddle, as experienced with time, as evermore this need to project; while more rejection, this village of leverage, where another carries our misery; indeed, to bars, while affected by joy, to surf this web of stoic glee; that portal shifting, while died a soul, as resurrected a child at forgiveness.     I don’t forsake, at practice to forgive, where distance provides complaisance; this eerie monster, where minds are alert, but something fails to fly; or more to families, this soul at children, as giving more than one has ever received—: concerned with errors; perfecting language; our dinner table every night by six—this ache for values, as cries our courage, afforded three breaths: that one existence; that other seeking; that third to finding with vengeance: if but to fly, embedded that vex of grains, affectionate but found adrift.     [I feel us spinning, lodged in cocoons, bombarded by plethora advice; this itchy irritation, while distinguished as different, where presence becomes by faculties: that grievous rotation; that love for honor; such respect for our founding homes: this place near hearts, that heel as discomfort, that session of breaking free; as gave us life, this terrifying beauty, while fretted by this edgy nervousness: those jasper ears; that jasmine toe; our jousting to live as normal; this place in minds, to give but life, where music seeps into existence; as more a soul, to embrace fury, as granted three wishes].         

Omic Love, as Souls Emerge

I see love, something atypical, as rationalistic motion—this flurry of flowers, as fire implodes, where brains are haunted by empiricism—that anchor grounded, engulfed by algae, such as seaweeds beguiling our treasures; to float with time, as chiseled in segments, our predicaments mainly internal: our flying carpets; our bronzed analyses; those myriad characters—as sleeping dormant, our minds to church, or more, our secular marriages—where image is life, this thing he lost, while others cemented his follies—this blind alley, as casual disdain, to relive such travesties—as psychiatric, or therapeutic, such by slight distinctions—that rose mourning, as so far enlove, as, moreover, too far vulnerable.     We mince thoughts, speaking in metaphysics, attempting to concretize abstract emotions: this patent miracle, absorbed in Stevie Wonder, our eyes by torpedoes by energy—as, nevermore, this feeling by tsunami, to exude an anger for science—as challenged our skills, while pulled or nudged, our arrows abrupt our abysses—to pet our knees, or grip our elbows, affected by affections.     I touch it barely, tugged by an instance, becoming a bit idealistic—that capital art, as marshal our brains, such as verbal Taekwondo—or livid our minds, by seasons our experiments, a bit too wanting to outwit The Yellow Brick Road; this rigorous insight, as forever at chase, where thoughts are dissected—as more confronted, this authenticity, as required this need to vet our thoughts: that dramatic essence, as fueled a dream, while straining forever that christic gnat.     I drift; at cadence with operations; this split in self as mystic atoms: our cagey nights; inflamed with promise; as kissed a squirrel to treasure a palace—this wealth as bleeding, this scar as oozing, this person as singing.     It becomes mythic, but pure reality, this epistemic congestion—to measure our knowledge, indebted to skeptics, at daybreak studying intentions—this inner cringe, as an outer glow, our artistry becoming symbiotic—where love is purple, while doubts are murky, this jousting with ontic thoughts.          

Ebbing Through This Flow of Lights II

It becomes electric, this voice in souls, a bit pregnant with mystery; to measure as fact, this contradiction, as answering so little; this space as airborne, this wave as brain-islands, our haze but a tare eating at hearts; to awaken by motion, such steep concentration, our ears popping—our aches rattling, that inner fusion, as merging with thoughts—to exchange frustration, as seeping into majesty, this blazing too but sacred for weakened faith.     I read interior, this tragic magazine, our confidence running afflicted with taints—this crumbling tome, as disguised our weariness, while furniture speaks to feng shui—this jar of fireflies, that ladybug watching, our wings pruned to perfections—if but to flights, this long wilderness, to pant at brooks so close to deer; indeed, by captures, this cistern of souls, while pausing deep enough to evaporate: that trickling trance; that picture perfect caption; those days I gazed in silence—where this is life, our generators feeding instincts, our minds wresting with illusions—to hear a sound, as filtered through pains, our ears disputing intentions—as more a soul, sliced by existence, where that person spoke void of motives.     I listen closely, dispersing my SOS, while filled with voltage; this arc by lights, that inner library, our feelings seated at our consensus: those teary lenses, as preaching our history, our arteries pouring into our escapes—those beige emotions, as a woman by trimesters, this glass shattered to ceilings; as dissipating silence, abreast a cave-soul, scribbling cartoons: that cyan towel; that green soap; such as water re-baptizing minds: such as tone-ships, this delicate ego, living an inner overseer: that cryptic volt, such inner inquiry, to wonder if it stems from more than seconds.     Our nights are falling; our songs are soaring; we come to that familiar lagoon] as dressed in essence, while to listen to breathing, our spouses gazing to feather our souls; this life as given, some mothers to graves, while children explore lights: this casual envy, as sore an occurrence, to push a series of buttons—where birds are chanting, this space by appraisals, as one perfects this element of business: that edgy art, by flutes to wings, our early morning orchestras: that thing for spelling, as to summons a word, while such hides laughing maniacally; indeed, I jest, but some would fathom, our ceramic interests; as never it tires, this essence to witness, while ever is runs its laps: that inner indigo, a touch effected with sadness, where errands become this fantastic hobby: that child upon skates; that son surfing; that daughter with this fetish for spiritual literature; in truth, to watch her, as mother recruits her, to guide her to a den of self-revelation.      

Ebbing Through This Flow of Lights

We lose something, poised as analytical, while fevers fly—that type of dullness, as camouflaged by details, a bit to robots our brains—this soul flitting, contained as wildness, while fire becomes constructed—that iron kiln, that kiwi with grapes, our spirulina with apple juice; as lives a daughter, that treble heart-line, our fiddling as to structure conformity; for something’s lost, that synaptic bus, fleeing into a cocoon: that respected psych; that cautious professor; our doctors to edgy weekends.     I’m hearing noise, this shattered image, such as shards whisper lies—this achy forgiveness, so far inverted—that man but deserts screaming our names; where echoes groan, such as making love, to think so much he thought but naught: that closet of ghosts, if ever they knew, our perfect address but messy penmanship; those years to ruses, if but a kitty outdoors, those terrors but midnight meows—as cultured success, to mold a brilliant sculpture, where pillars become constructed shadows; hereto, such as agonies, those particular pills, that particular therapy—as running through senses, immune to humanity, crawling near a perfect portrait—as dreaded science, this buffing of windows, while passions cling to intentions. [We gain successions, always to nectar, too inviting to persist—that organ wailing, that saxophone crying, our cymbals depressed—as murky our waters, or alive our brains, while fumbling through activities: a little that way; a carnival this way; that list of museum captions—as lives our souls, this reading of romances, our hopes by dreams that stranger’s eyes: if but to perish, as more to live, accustomed to wakeless hours—our churning hearts, to awaken concentration, our memoirs purporting borderline madness—as kissed a lizard, to construct a prince, while egos were flaring electricity: that casual ache, disturbed by noises, while forced to leave our cocoons—this trekking through cities, our colors as magnetic, this panting breath—as occasioned a scream, while gripping bloody lights, our bodies clutching and releasing—that tiny creature, so infused with joy, our hopes to love void of suspicion—that watchful hour, as resting through fantasies, so captured a prayer to temples—those bold eyes, as humble a heartbeat, fleeing for flying to return with tears: that prodigal sunlight; those welkin toes; our days to fire—where love is activity, while patience is kindness, where lies erupt into abrupt confessions]. It comes to loving, this peaceful, chaotic art, where agonies dwell in membranes—as adored a child, watching as moving, where said child becomes a miracle: that instance of charms, as effused with feelings, this thread holding its parts—as deep friction, so born a tear, to debate by hours our constellations—that bleeding star, that satyr moon, our adulterous sun—as felt an eclipse, where life is won, while reality sheds its garments: that hectic neckline, as ablaze our sky-center, while to conjure this terrifying war-storm: our coffee coughs; our cloves by tear-lights, this thing for designer chaos; indeed, to drumming, this thrumming of winds, as bees hum to caroling—our faraway hassles, to prescient a mood, encapsulated but spinning .   

Stumble While Flying

I die to you, as involved with you, while too aloof to love you—this feeling as cringing, our remote reality, where it feels pain to evolve through you. I held cygnets, this blank delusion, a man retyping sentences—to capture existence, that indecision, as scraped asunder claiming love—to voice as heartbeats, this craving sensation, where Love rescues this fleeing frenzy. It could for life, those wings as effective, where tomorrow awakens purest honesties—but this is fancy, our remote islands, as was said our purest infusions; this tale of dying, that song of living, our deepest exiles.   

          

I can’t capture it, the above as stated, for something dies with presence—this furious frenzy, our curious matrimonies, this dowry wrapped in psychoses—where mothers perish, as sons flourish, while fathers die to liquor: this fabulous feeling, as encased in tragedies, while at terrors to love but distance: that cagey art, those psychic chains, that overseer to reckon consciousness: if but to perish, as too many seeds, where psychologists abort his brains: that Buddhist woman, those Zenists claims, as exclaimed this fury of temperaments.     I triggered a button, as but appeals, to ask of this future where disease is fawning; that grave adventure, to reckon that feeling, while at treasures to expose certain faces.     I could to retreat, as an exile in turmoil, where features resolve an unending trespass; as more to passions, where tetras is life—this game of reality.  

I feel distraction, to wonder for repeats, while an audience is musing—this feature in brains, as bypassing reality, where moments predict a foolish poet; that kef as cycles, those yarns as lethal, this place in psyches as disrupting a normal course; but hell to dying, while others feel ecstatic, in turn, this deep dejection: those furious sessions, where Love is panting, while every sensation ripples through my bones; or more to deaths, as embracing a stranger, where minds coalesce.

 We laugh to read it, that something so simple, where this foolish art immerges; but this is feelings, this space of souls, where cygnets gain control: that deep decision, as upon a heartbeat, to decide if tales will excel: those shivering knees, to unlock with essence, while energy enters: as life to doubts, while Love exudes—this ace in arts too evolved.

I must return, at presence—this sentiment—where essence becomes a Bastille: that casual ache, to resume to faces, by chance to have a fleeting excitement—insofar, as feelings, this poet as a dream, while dreams are embedded in your soul: that drastic carnage, those exclusive eyes, that pilgrim dancing to see your desert—in such to perish, for life has sewn—this tear in death as deeply exposed.

I shall retreat, where thoughts are vacant, while ever a mere sojourner.  

Would to Perish for an Ounce of Truth

I’m a ghost, to flee participation, as needing those rejections—to portal time, this clock blinking, as afloat a haunted house—to drag for culture, this Egyptian Bastille, alive a second to resurrection—as cursed a swan, or evolved as priceless, cutting into celery—to sense a priest, to adventure mystic rites, affronted with hiccups; where mother loved, as best she could, this man a fist of apologetics: that ritual psych, as afforded by mercies, while time came that psychologist; indeed, a rapture, our bodies to convolutions, this rhythm leaving its quarters; as never to die, as living out deaths, this weft cemented in chins—as broken to pounds, to choke up his guts, by tears an innocent swan; that contradiction, as policed with nonsense, while ever an excuse. [I lived forever, captured in theatre, aflame this mortal burst—that furniture melting     those eyes screaming     our dilemma too tipsy to compose; thitherto, a fixation, to carry a tornado, while therapists attempt to unlatch—that furious brain, seated in compact rooms, too afraid to broach infinity: that achy trauma, while angered concerning bull-dung, to ruin therapy prior to seeking healing.     We come to lights, this field of feelings, where good requires our attention; as hitherto, this vague expression, while bleeding this plain racist.     I could to live, if more to die, reading for dreaming that immortal swan; as bent a slither, or that slither to ruins, while grandparents wonder of a perfect daughter; to die that vision, exploded within, while lies seem to convince; indeed, to terrors, as cursed for believing, as that last story became offensive.     We die to life     as to live by lives     while all-the-more our souls are cringing].     I met a friend, this unlikely survival     where one is too detached to feign successfully; but this is living     this compass bleeding, where success becomes impossible; but more to fools     as finding that myth     while others revue conveying disenchantment.     It must exist, this daughter as an empire, out mothers learning to subsist: if but to lithium     out metaphysicians     where infinity becomes a rug fraught with mildew.     I spoke with physicists, to ponder chi, while affected too deeply to contend: this place of cadence; this woman as immortal; that feeling as elusive; where shaking becomes tremors, or love becomes fantasies, while aches become concentration; to ponder adventure, at travels those seas, where Poseidon alerts us to pure folly.     [I feel through purpose, too cold to return, at terrors that one is pressing his depression—while this is nature, those selfish dreams, to court with purpose to destroy; that American Dad, as jested in Family Guy, where a queen has focused upon Prince Charles—that movie cringing, as to fathom worth, where possible some refute those bills—as living insanity, while crazed for perfection, to render an inadequate thought: that courage-mile, those platinum panties, to realize it renders as not enough. We could to panic, our lanterns out of oil, this vision as imploding brains—while to die a fever, as reversed in thoughts, where defeat becomes this tale of jealousy].     I think to peace     effective but a moment     where cygnets jog this inner man: that casual goodbye, as implying richness, while fools ponder upon longevity; as something potent, this elusive spell, as nothing to extract from—where fragments linger, that inner lingerie, while never a heartbeat—to flurry with rites, while confused by dreams, this extravagant woman reciting eulogies; but this is life, this play for leverage, while mingled in self, (That ghost was chasing); our vocal trefoils, to sprout with intention, where Love becomes withdrawn: this inner music, that dirge of concerns, where others have vied for elations—those electric arcs, that favor as bleeding, our waves as chasing doorposts; while, nevertheless, beauty is raging, this place of insights, where one is lax for approaching with certainties; to love by design, to know for courting, where said love becomes fabricated—for hearts are tugged, while detached from feelings, where fools die as victims.

Portrait Monologue (I Stepped In)

But a monster through mother, that absent father, to condemn but so much; that falling frequency, our snoring and walking, our touring and talking.     I frequent a fragrance, a pistol through adolescence, to want for calmer oceans: that cultured queen, so wild and chaotic, by a collection of hats—that stranger’s lusts, that cheetah running, our affairs that fist to pillows—as crazed, peering at professors, a bit too uncouth for love; where self ruptures ashamed, as falling lights, to change so drastically for broken vessels: that movie dying, that classic refuted, this vex of proprieties: our casual banter, that inner undercurrent, that working of brains near cliffs—as retreated her life, to engage by prowess, about as cultic as psychs; indeed, to woes, cringing for prying, binging for dying; that morning of whispers, by sudden elation, to feel by loins a presence.     We knitter sackcloth and poured liquor and nibbled cucumbers [where gods appeared, this instinctive voiceprint, our transmitters as cache foot-hints] to love abrasions, our maniacal laughter, streaming by Olivia’s mirror—in truth, to terrors     Rihanna at vocals     this space in dungeons our comforts—where artistry bleeds, as calligraphy screams, this kef in demons an uncanny blueprint [but life to trauma     this woman of substance     while grieving our adolescence: those beige rulers; that type of arthritis; our steep melancholia—as frowning malaise, a tare amazed with frequencies, while arriving at knowledge that vitiates—this inner karma, so desperate a good girl, this prison suffocating humanity—where science is failing, as religion is failing, as, nevertheless, each has extended its portion].     I faulted mother, by tired excuses, to forget she sat it out: those chains and buses; those sticks and sherm; that radical betrayal by marijuana—a bit too colorless, to shift a heartbeat, a new man in hours; therewith, this scar, as claiming ownership, where slavery remains illegal—if but a curse, as realized a second, This wealth becomes filthy; hereto, such killing insights, whereat, such killing love [to purchase lingerie, or an expensive perform, or to barbeque for hours—those margaritas, to witness perfection, that laughter a cocoon to arts—as never for darkness, as darkness prevailed, where truths followed this norm of paradise; indeed, to sarcasm, scraped and scarred, fleeing for harmony: as, nevertheless, this mystic chantress, or that yogic councilwoman, while we freedom by flying with Jews: that music he loved, that angle she frowned, this thing concerning toilet paper; as more emphatic, this grin so impartial, to have for seconds perfection].     I peeled a grape, To hell with love, this type of lying to self—as gone to rivers, pillaging this forest, standing aside our frontier: that edgy art, that infusion of brains, to catch a vibe our daughters: those nectarines, that bundle of broccoli, that running for freedoms—where papa loves, as holding his child, as momma wipes a tear; this place in souls, as snatching hearts, by knells so rebellious: as, moreover, a kiss, as hitherto, a vex, while friends laugh over traumas—that deep concern, fretted by therapy, such determination to breathe—where patience wanes, while children are abrupt, that reaching for popping while barely at lights; indeed to music, to caress eyes, this chi as abracadabra—our pure insanity, our mischief love, our vetting souls.