But
a monster through mother, that absent father, to condemn but so much; that
falling frequency, our snoring and walking, our touring and talking. I frequent a fragrance, a pistol through
adolescence, to want for calmer oceans: that cultured queen, so wild and
chaotic, by a collection of hats—that stranger’s lusts, that cheetah running, our
affairs that fist to pillows—as crazed, peering at professors, a bit too
uncouth for love; where self ruptures ashamed, as falling lights, to change so
drastically for broken vessels: that movie dying, that classic refuted, this
vex of proprieties: our casual banter, that inner undercurrent, that working of
brains near cliffs—as retreated her life, to engage by prowess, about as cultic
as psychs; indeed, to woes, cringing for prying, binging for dying; that
morning of whispers, by sudden elation, to feel by loins a presence. We knitter sackcloth and poured liquor and
nibbled cucumbers [where gods appeared, this instinctive voiceprint, our
transmitters as cache foot-hints] to love abrasions, our maniacal laughter,
streaming by Olivia’s mirror—in truth, to terrors Rihanna at vocals this space in dungeons our comforts—where
artistry bleeds, as calligraphy screams, this kef in demons an uncanny
blueprint [but life to trauma this
woman of substance while grieving our
adolescence: those beige rulers; that type of arthritis; our steep
melancholia—as frowning malaise, a tare amazed with frequencies, while arriving
at knowledge that vitiates—this inner karma, so desperate a good girl, this
prison suffocating humanity—where science is failing, as religion is failing,
as, nevertheless, each has extended its portion]. I faulted mother, by tired excuses, to
forget she sat it out: those chains and buses; those sticks and sherm; that
radical betrayal by marijuana—a bit too colorless, to shift a heartbeat, a new
man in hours; therewith, this scar, as claiming ownership, where slavery
remains illegal—if but a curse, as realized a second, This wealth becomes filthy; hereto, such killing insights, whereat,
such killing love [to purchase lingerie, or an expensive perform, or to
barbeque for hours—those margaritas, to witness perfection, that laughter a
cocoon to arts—as never for darkness, as darkness prevailed, where truths
followed this norm of paradise; indeed, to sarcasm, scraped and scarred, fleeing
for harmony: as, nevertheless, this mystic chantress, or that yogic
councilwoman, while we freedom by flying with Jews: that music he loved, that
angle she frowned, this thing concerning toilet paper; as more emphatic, this
grin so impartial, to have for seconds perfection]. I peeled a grape, To hell with love, this type of lying to self—as gone to rivers,
pillaging this forest, standing aside our frontier: that edgy art, that
infusion of brains, to catch a vibe our daughters: those nectarines, that bundle
of broccoli, that running for freedoms—where papa loves, as holding his child,
as momma wipes a tear; this place in souls, as snatching hearts, by knells so
rebellious: as, moreover, a kiss, as hitherto, a vex, while friends laugh over
traumas—that deep concern, fretted by therapy, such determination to
breathe—where patience wanes, while children are abrupt, that reaching for
popping while barely at lights; indeed to music, to caress eyes, this chi as abracadabra—our pure insanity, our
mischief love, our vetting souls.
