I
live us, Dove infused a dream while unraveled a portrait; as lived our
lives captured nigh ecstasy revving a sleep-fest; this casual death,
to recognize kef, this feeling of never aching: such is soreness this wealth as dying to do about anything—if but to enter, that
odor wafting, as an aphrodisiac—that faint ambrosia, those ribs aflame, that
back as aesthetic—to cry excitement, as furious as rhinos, a bit to symbols
that psychotic tern. I churn passion,
sipping a daiquiri, to rush it down with coffee—as floored adjustments our faces slipping that image to penetrate—as furious lovers,
so lost a dream, to imagine our children crying; those feeble limbs, our
chicken from Ralphs, our egg-salad with cayenne pepper—that delirious pressure,
so confused by gravel, as flipping upon ruby carpets—that rich curse at first that love lusting for Brimhall; indeed our mixture,
a fist full of peaches, a palm filled with vitamin B: if only to perish, this
brief escape, a turn too ecstatic for Princess: that mythic woman, at treasures
for richness, while sacrificing pressures—that tender fury, to hate by design,
as frantic a page of excuses—this increment man, to hold such disdain, as never
a day of placating Love [but more to fancy, as lived a Savior, to remember
Chinese rice—that fajita monster, so infringed by spices, where a swan lingered
in a crib; as, notwithstanding, this ache for Smith, writhing in Sophia—where
Love is angst, sifting through prose, alive a cygnet; in such to life, those
Asian tears, to confuse our jetted heartbeats: that metaphysician, those curbed
pragmatists, our rushes as soul-beats afflux—to die to beauty, those calves as
impressions, by mane too ecstatic for carnal sex; indeed, a miracle, this fool
to pressures, our rants raging for Pulitzer Awards…by crooked canvas our words to slant a field of butt naked Egyptians; to die a
curse, as to live a curse, our predicaments flowered in gins—where art is
travesty our years to Shakespeare our tears for Simone; that fabulous
manifestation, as captured in Greene, or more that psych as rarely at presence;
where stars speak, as to frantic in rushes, where a woman flashes such
anguish—that dotted knocking, as doors to open, while finally to face our therapeutics—where
mother appears, a clock to palms, while laughing maniacally—or more to grandpa,
at flickers detrimental, where essence bleeds yearning for Doves; that miracle
mind ablaze a queen spotting that knees look so familiar]. I clever a thought those licorice lips that European nose—where knuckles speak,
this luxury of oils, but too far extracted to love—where voices panic, that
shiver in lungs, our sales debating a bucket of cloves—as sparked infinity,
that second for direction, to come so close by retreats: this place in minds,
that fantastic fantasy, to fever such attraction—where Love awoke, for Love a
kind gesture, to infuse total disdain.
[I loved for Precious, as stirred his grains, as to lose in one heartbeat—that
attic soul, as so to dungeons, while afforded this pith of mayhem: that gravid
grandpa; those delicate grandmothers; that cousin where life is fair; at
truths, to confess, this misprinted personality, but not unto detriments; but
this life, where ours are different, this obvious concern; as one emits love,
another finds love, where hell ensues—insomuch a scar, this inner
transmission—to love as long as Love is Perfect].
