I
see a clock, so symbolic a dream, such mental chaos. I see a hammock, as love a
person, to disappear frankly—by fulgent heartache, by deep emotion, by such
feelings waging tug-a-war—those cutting extremes, to want intensity, while
fleeing intensity—as living in membranes, or captured to memories, this feeling
abrupt a fleeting second. I see a mirror, encased in images, some by fate are
caricatures: those bulbous features; that crayon reality; or tender, the
psychology of children. [(A man lost it; raging atop his voice; where a woman
spoke as if to infants: that man became a child, slammed with Thorazine, to
venture by aches a fifth portal)]. I’m seeing towels, flapping by thunderbolts,
as to vanish our sights pure energy: that inner breakage, as enlove madly,
chasing for bawling to arise a magnet: that mental chimney; that soot and
smaze; those legs at miles his brains. [(We used to adore, by mystery those
eyes, as cleaving to life one glimpse—as clave a soul, that rapturous
wrestling, while pining for a subtle invite: those sculpted dreams, as fawning
so attentively, while craving beyond inner capacity)]. I see gloom, this deep
abrasion, a bit too worrisome—while wrapped in angst, to wrench that thought,
this inner wire that facial trapeze. I tasted salt, by scope an image, by
sky-planes a journal; to sketch fire, this running by shorelines, with arms
abroad that embrace—by such as darkness, this sprinting for affections, to
capture such ravishing intensity: We used
to dance. We used to sing. Our dreams were so infectious. [(We dine this
love, at full embrace, while giving beyond capacity: our aches and groans; our
bodies and souls; our brains and wits)]. I see a bra, dangling by a doorknob,
lain against this offcolored white: those rosy splinters; that can of Monster;
those literary jars by cadence—as torn but lethal, those brains to museums, as
academic faucets: that woman watching, while retreating deeply, at tensions to
feel for undercurrents. I lost a dream, to capture a vision, where arts became
this heartcave of instruments: that humble cymbal; that awakening clarinet;
those passions sprouting by roots of insanity. Such satin eyes—as intrusive a
storm, while gambits are implemented: that shift for reply; that gesture for
consciousness; our responses as adolescent. I saw a tourist, so bubbly with
life, I wondered of those childlike infusions; as gripping his shovel, with
this promise to exclaim, while mountains turned to molehills. I can’t escape
it; as fed so much too early; while gnawing upon lemon grass; those high blades,
by grazing those deers, at internals wrestling a crocodile. I see pills, while
indebted to science, delving deeper by mystic aloofness—to harvest organs, as
seated at church, this grove in souls seeking out agape: if but to passions, our deep effects, our trembling palms.
