We
vehicle fire, so charming a gesture, at pears a craft-river dream: eclectic
nightmares; inverted visions; that old cliché concerning tires and pavement;
where seconds are threshed, to arouse death, while to tussle with inclinations:
our damage perfected; our lives at motives; our tendons becoming cul-de-sacs. I
see power, those waves to competition, our calibers clashing; to sense a
hundred grand, by classes a million, plus, that entitled prince—as begging
life, while sipping beer, our willows at meditations: that slight remark; those
jibs for jabs; that casual, Figure it out…but
a blazer aflame, those decades at trainings, to stipple by silhouettes—as
Stella McCartney, our jackets losing texture, our needs to ingest by
fire-graves—if be it a scream, this search for status, those years at
self-destruction—while beige is gray, that top deceptive, our honors becoming
suspect—as floored a mind, a mallet to thoughts, this meadow by affections; as
retreating his mind, to conflict his purpose, to grip her heart; where
reversion is shags, plus, those long bangs, plus, this brief melody as escaping
his reality; to sense for special, this magnitude screaming, while so
nonchalant our emerald eyes; as never they die, as ever they live, that life to
fixing that fancy—to court for black-ties, or that inner jaguar, our years to
ditching Chevys—as arriving at Bentleys, that African jade, that goodness
gown—where thoughts invert, as reaching their opposites, a passing frenzy over
pork chops; indeed, to live, our Caesar salads, our nectar to penetrate
fiction—our Chance Chanel, our Olay skin, that tiara splayed in mirrored
particles—as living fantasy, afraid of delusion, while bending fabricated
reality: unedited dreams; internal novellas; that space between our sexual
dalliances—where beauty becomes cliché, as possessing perfection, a skirt as a
casual lawyer: if but to breathe, at comforts a tank-top, barefoot in
All-Stars—that frantic comfort, while sipping teas, a casual trestle a table by
laughs—this gloomy man, to pen and paper, our brains as Sneakers; albeit, to
passions, too clouded a daymare, our intellectual Pantene—where almonds are
appealing, but pistachios excite, while peanuts are too plain: that art grieving,
to love for angst, if touch becomes a whisper. Such bare paradox—as graphic
sky-flares, our chips with Ranch—to sense explosion, bathed in Neutrogena,
facing our random acts; insomuch, to perish, as proving a point, while
exploited our gray lagoons: as preparing for greatness, abated by circumstance,
a fantast scribbled in realist lies—as absent of L’Oreal, while textured in
bronzer, or to amazement that infant exposure—where glamour is casual, as,
nevertheless, we dance for freedoms—that telic ambition, as ontic chaos, headed
to Sephora—as metaphorical, painting in broad strokes, but neglected by reality.
