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.
