At
terrible terrors this present
sculptor while thoughts merge through
millennia: that feral grin, that daughter’s heart-pressure, that gore of
witnesses; where mother panics as
cleaving insanity this feeling so
addictive those mystics; as pure lithium, or smelted souls, that inner, Thank you: those cobra eyes, that lion’s
brow, those psychedelic illusions—where fathers frown, as feeling frightened,
to know our Love has myriad fancies; indeed to life, those designer drugs, a
frog, a leaf, an epiphany—where psychs juggle, as trekking jungles, this bundle
of dolls by terrors; as, nonetheless, that silent absence, afraid by
chameleons, or more enchanted—to want possession, as true to loyalties, while
something possessed forfeits individuality: that calm grandpa; that lucrative
grandma; that fist filled with ferns; as left his heart, this dart surging, at
once, to penetrate mysterious presence; as mother died, to crush his feelings,
to see her dragging a lifeless body.
I’m more to fire at awe with
shamans that gust of winds to elevate
a person’s soul—in such to grains, this sickle to temperaments, to feel that
song alive a dead invention; therewith, are images, this place of
strobe-lights, while falling into immortal abysses—as parted his life, to
emerge a vacuum, this lemon tickling rum—as dying your essence, so infused by
sights, as rarely to ask advice; whereto, is failure, but never to equals,
where flickers flux through fevers—that distant agony, as more than love, where
a series of surgeons are late for surgery.
It could be love, this flaring of instincts, to fling as flung a barrel
of horderves—as born to stumble, while at war with delusions, to want for sexy
this infinite minx: our pressured souls, staring at pressured globes, as if to
perish while seeping into attractions. I’m late for brunch seeping into academics a bit weary our
dreaded psychologies (as lost to admiration
too proud to conflict insofar,
as lighting that falling
candle). It comes to pains so alert our terrors at lusts for secrets while bawling; where
features appear, as normal a scar, while too many as hindered beyond likewise;
thereto, are deliveries, as one in labor, to catch a tunnel of immortal brains:
that kleptomaniac; that torrent trickster; this page adjusted for one person;
as furious your fever, to want that ritual, to see you aglow seated in pure
innocence—or more to lady-hood, that canvas bleeding, to reach by grasps that
negligee; where mothers perish, as fathers perish, our coming into
individuality: that steep friendship, as encouraged our arcs, while all for
more spreading wings. I remember
hearts, as driven through hertz, to feel through flame this immortal curse—as
soldiers are women, and warriors are women, while men become immortal
electricity; that song in souls, our nightingales, fleeing for crawling, that
concern by returns: if but to feel, this drilling excitement, while daughters
witness a friendly soul—this thing of color, where color is found, our laws to
seas our uncles to grieving—as more vexation, or carnal attraction, to form a
wall that fall of fractions.
