I’ve belabored this present sentence: We
yearn for what we refuse to give.
I’m
aloof a dungeon pardoned for
treacheries at admiration without
love: that fabled dynasty as never
those eyes cringing aborted
sensations; as died a mother, our father’s turmoil, our exiles flippant through
magazines: that achy neck that line
to brains that father eclectic by
somber vigilance: if but our fire
ecstatic by souls at needs
cleaving to ideals—such rabid currencies
to have loved by science while
enacting those visions by eternity; where monsters simmer afflux by sensations too selfish to unveil: that life as death,
that bright pearly fledgling, conditioned by porcelain dungeons—by skydive
heights, or sky-clear promises, at deaths that sky-hell abrasion: those crying
grannies, so obscene but perfection, at scant views blotching their
portraits. {I troublesome love aware as it vanishes as craving desire a book-pouch of
heart-tares: that welkin fury; those mystic brows; such by terror our palms to
windows—while souls are dying, where beauty fades, our temperaments
readjusted—as flees infest this
horror of tales our minds as clamped
with visions: those outer halos, as Love excited such prayers, our ribcages
shrinking with agonies—that gumdrop kiss; those unsung cries; as magnet-chi awakens serenity: those lost
adjectives; those wings as shovels; that downpour of a moment churned: to see
his soul, forwarded inside-out, and nestled in perfumes—that grievous sanction,
those hearts to confusion, so undone singing perfections}. Its hostile deception; its hellish
heartaches; and even more, its incessant repentance; where marbles shatter, that
trope for groveling, our masks escaping us come mass: that daughter’s prayer
beads our mothers as ministers our nerves becoming unlegible music—while
painting peace, so filthy our cadence, as queens and quilts and quicksand
excavations—that beige error, to have ruined affairs, while perfect becomes one
but human; that steep majesty as
roads, rains, and hailstorms afforded
cadent mercies—as sailing salt those
stolen seeds to taste so little as
brine and brains—that edgy mind-beat, that tent of pictures, our poison by
pleasures we live.
We
sense powers, this perspective as linear, grounded in myriad souls] that price of births that purpose of passions our prose as embedded in cerebrums] where rhythms become symbols or torn sky-signs our elevations as sofas: that soundless
song, our thunder as pistons, our deserts infested with lizards] that living soul, that pyramid of monks,
those introjections concerned with liquor].
We abide by yokes, our wounds as wheels, our yesteryears dictating our
behaviors: that recovered light, as forgetting its fuse, a tear too congested
with status: or guitars by clouds, this incessant reaching, while oblivious to
debris; as goodbye ghosts, at gates with vengeance, that constant movement of
furniture. I combed a feeling, and
plucked a tick, while feeling this inner person—that slight nuance, to merge at
seconds, where another scratches by ears—that drilling illness, that field of
fiction and flowers, our motions as flinging that rapturous wind; as cried our
comforts, or torn our impulses, conditioned that contagious collar.
