Pure Attraction, As Inner Cinema

I’m running eyes     by courage to churn     such deceptive brains—this flute but life     this lute but passion     as craved a lucid sentence: if perished we live, by parish to sin, so steep such aggressive trespass: that portrait cinema; that mental matinee; this soul abashed for imageries: that surreal inversion, so aloof to patience, fleeing for frolicking through tulips.     We struck a volt, as cave-distance to winds, to arrive at friendship: our tragedy music; our ambiguous seduction; this fretting heart distinguishing textures—such as chaos, filmed as travesties, alive a glint our imaginations: that perfect psychology, to raise a son, as depicted in mannerisms.     I shall but live;     I shall but die;     this soul by claves those temple clippings: our portico shames, this hive of reality, this ghost dripping through visions; as appalled to perish, while at tears to breathe, as met a second to re-gesture mysticism—that pagan charm, such déjàvu, as a man desires more—this cave racing, this ache at flames, our increments but pure delusion—as torn particles, those academic eyes, this thunder we possess concerning romance—as awkward lights, our bulbs fumbling, to chance with arcs this feral atmosphere.     We sail seas     arriving through sensations     debating step by step—this rabid reality     to win accustomed to sinning     or fire to soul our restless agonies: that inquisitive eye; that gaze to tables; that need to perfect ere our children—while sudden to currents, if but illusional sin, while to utter a woman’s riddle: this pulse in mind     while racing through aircrafts     semi-addictive that fleeting second.     I can’t capture it;     I came to laughter with it;     while reality stands appointed to destroying an inner fixture: as pure seduction; to carry this aura; by gestures designed to cull admiration: if but to fly, such by nonchalance, a tad bit hebetated; that dull fever, peering at calmness, this treasured feature that culture.     [It becomes traits;     it lives through sexuality;     we treasure candid feelings]; that surreal creature, as pardoned a realist, by anger traveling at warp speed; to congest his mind, if but an adventure, a bit severed by power: this welt within; that winning distance; this want to possess—as fleeing culture, while immersed in culture, that inner heart-harp.     Its psycho-anesthesia, or genetic-disposition, weld tightly by physical prowess—this cryptic by thoughts, as imbuing one with mystery, while ignoring our limited data-resources; where less becomes mystical, while more maintains distance, this soul at fevers debating pure silence; this crevice of warriors, as disturbed but taciturn, to churn through tyrannies: that brave gesture, as prepared for war, while reality keyboards this dearth of information: those cloth-tight jeans; that aesthetic blouse; that blasé disposition—as professional warmth, this arch as leaning, our song as derived through enchants; where father would laugh, such to mystic romance, to have narrowed attraction down to physical transparencies—as but his torture, our mental-atmosphere, this inner ambiance—where never breeds, this must to retreat, while adhering to social fire-posts.   {I died attraction;     I lived rejuvenation;     I’ll never to flights our combustion—where souls seek infinity, those moments to molding, this adventure where our worlds evaporated; to see such eyes, or structure such thoughts, by mere a shadow wrestling with our parents: those discredited elements; to vitiate wholeness; while we yearn through silence: this inner movie, as immortal souls, a bit at expertise our callings—where mother portrays, this gray fixture, at roofs prying through blueprints.     We shall dine at souls, this all day travel, as awakened sorely}.