I
admire art, such cryptic pains, as an eyelash adjusted sorely: that passion
screaming; that palpable yoke; this morbid frustration—as sober a curse, or
inebriated a vulture, while reigns announce tyranny: our apparatus; our lively
darkness; that frequency so courted a scar; to sculpt peace, such scorned
arithmetic, while pitching quarters to a basin—as symbolic shame, this breach
in souls, to love through abrasions: this perfect catastrophe, as repeating its
nature, but a fool to sense it differently; and here I am, a lover of deserts,
such bait and venom—to encourage a star, this leverage of souls, that man
concerned regarding upkeep: that terrible badge; her perfect demeanor; this
battle by requirements; as, nevertheless, that mutual updraft, or that
trenchant down-surge; our bestial wings, by birdlike eyes, such biting
friction. {We admire art, while mending divisions, while breath-death appears
permanent: our muddy blood; our cactus diamonds; by intense affections we
conjure—that cemetery caption; that chain of churches; that wretched
feeling}. I feel detached, after
years of trainings, a tare erased by proprieties: that naked deception; that
emotional debt; our pleasantries at arrivals; indeed, by chaos, a lie abiding for
decades, where life is trampled; but more to beauty, this fabulous creature, as
never by fruit-flies; that casual ache, to want by moments, without such
permanent texture; that faint decision, while chasing a queen, that scientific
dowry; as, nevertheless, to obtain cache, while selfish enough to ruin life:
that inner pageantry; that sore design; our drums beating to another’s fancy;
where passions clash, as gorgeous for years, our channels skipping—our remotes
obscure; indeed, to love, by chance a church, such dust by dusk driving our
souls; whereto, are feelings, these eyes within, such by terrors our
earthquakes. [I saw an engine, as
purely emphatic, assisting perceptions
as loved another that mental
earth our bones by mania and driven;
to curse his life, while father prevailed, this whim a bit too excited by love;
as coursing afar that inner
theologian that turn of events to
efface a problem; as, nevertheless, this grave attraction, where a phoenix
dwells—and wars are good, this fatal elation, to climb by scars and perish;
where buildings erect, as pictures grow infusions, our conditions as mosaic
museums—where love has shattered, its image to waste lands, by pure a feature
to contend]. I ask to beauty, this
charming defense, as remembered this fool a segment—as flowers blossom, where
peaches are sliced, our pants as handkerchiefs—if sought his life, that
permanent texture, as one that sustains unions: that embedded courage, that
deep incision, those wings pruned by passions—where torrents are dark, in
terror of excavation, to remove a decade of complacent debris—that soft piano,
those fabled clarinets, our orchestra so gothic to life; as returning beauty,
this faraway gleam, to glisten our eyes; as told to live, as afforded this
want, where perfection is captured. I’ve dreamt a scar, as arriving at
miseries, a mannequin as a friend—to polish our worlds, writing as to reach, to
come to terms with something immortal: such absolution; or mere a fable; our
birds of paradise; to live forever, as thought in an instance, our eternal
dialogues.
