I
move like jam, purposed through structure, to realize the comforts of dying; to
meet as legends, those persons in flux, while inducing mental states: this
vicious ride; those loud tentacles; such by composure as disorderly; to ponder
vexation, reading through Malcolm, at tears through Douglass—that type of
intellect, as gradual deaths, alive feeling disoriented—those cold shoulders,
as fraught with anxieties, this craving to feel as that centerpiece: those
beige feathers, our Kierkegaard dreams, our swizzles with Poe: that wrench by
souls; this wretched harmony; our flowers sprouting from our keyboards; but
something more subtle—that emotion as keen, by focus to comport as one living:
that trenchant inducement, to become befuddled, while confusing source with
love. I groove with jazz, that intricate human, as such indebted to chaos—those
liquid abrasions; that objective camouflage; those tiles to perfection that
disorder: as seldom to accidents, while clutching a wand, to feel by rhythm a
vetted dysfunction—to capital screams, invested in motion, our perusals through
myriad behaviors: to curse by curses, afraid of dreams, a bit too wretched our
normality; where mother lives, that etch embroidery, our threads as pictures
captured—where daughters appear, while caressing an image, as so humble
investigative eyes—this kef in Plato, as embedded her seams, as outwitting
souls: that even disorder; that craft
by aches; that move by glass but impenetrable; to grip by sentence, that place
disjunct, why to utter something so foreign; as never that valley, as,
nevertheless, a tear to dells that adventure. I move like jam, so enlove a
caricature, by effects reasoned as dementia—that unwilling soul, as never by
words, this plethora by loss—as cautious by fever, while life scoots by, our years
to erasing errors—that parachute as smaze, that soot as specks, to heal by
losing old connections: that inner man, as crying his arrows, at terrors to
retreat into chaos: that vicious insight, as calculated theories, where a
trenchant gesture refuses disclosure. I’m treasures to visions, as potent
somewhat attached, while observing this cutting dissipation: that inner
television, as treading lagoons, while to pause by running through deserts—that
pure affliction, to have by disorder, something another requires; as monumental
science, a tear dormant for days, while mazing through this portals of
shrubberies; where love is foreign, while feeling souls, at captures to seize
by distance—this agony of mishaps, to capitalize on tyranny, as sudden this
vulnerable human: that penchant for affection; that tale of two wives; such
grief to needs.
I
see desire, as desire wanes, this man suspicious of behavior—those coconut
limbs, as pearly adventures, at terrors to become submission—as ever that
partial, while entrenched in souls, that inner art gallery—where father
screams, as indebted to thinking, while daughters empathize with tragedy: that
vacant lot; or that empty forest; by measures an unwept travesty: as cultured
souls, sort through utensils, evaluating culinary: that gray pot; as such for
pasta; or that whetstone catastrophe: to ask by persons, this measure of
living, as, nevertheless, disgruntle…to give his soul, by pure dysfunction, as
one condemned for submission: that theologian, where philosophy dies, steeped
in some sort of psychology: that life-giving courage, as racing through rails,
by capture to feel a missing element. (I must explain): there’s particles to
affection, this inner conglomerate, where if parts are missing one retreats:
this essence by passions, to feel heart-pressure, while devoid of subtle
nuances: indeed, those actions without fire; or that fire without gestures; or
to tears that collection of particles—where souls flourish, as if deluded,
while measurements remain aloof: that need to perish, as embedded in wings,
those secrets by living.
