I
see a dream
I
see a phantom
I’ve
died to ghosts: that intelligent prison, as wisdom scars, ajar’d and
out-broken—to skate as miserable, but elated to fire, to elope by whims: as
crazed ventriloquists, filled by matrimony,
at
vacuums to fidget the grime—
that
daybreak terror, to confess but a dream, angered by madmen: those welts to
brains, as sensing departure, ruined by an aperture—that beige insanity, palms
to a settee, our earlobes mystical excitement: where passion cries, this game
by aloofness, to find illusion sprouting wings: that bold capture, a womb as a
glimpse,
our
images screaming—to have by thoughts, those forfeited lusts, amazed with
presence—to cave our arcs, as ablaze’d our hearts, that clarinet in fielded
ghettoes: as shook and dead, by shaking his mother, a tranquilizer as
Jesus:—that broken moon, that inverted cygnet—such as violence as pure
disdain—to feel at glory, as too proud for minions, or too gorgeous for facial
wounds: where hate is childish, such unsung trauma,
those
leaps through airbeams: indeed, as death, this giving of feelings, while
failing at maintenance—as mother’s sun, that horrible figure, that chart by
trapeze villains: if but to die, singing but untold, by unraveled energies,
ever aloft a thought, that face screaming conceptions, to want such deaths,
while cleaving by moments, our hearts to entertainers, our dreams as forbidden
luxuries—to venture by pathos, a bit
livid with logos, this angst too cold
to remember—as shifts are gardens, this floating ten graves, by algorithms our
tarnished affair—this killing of minds, as awaiting rejuvenation, while sinking
lower:
if
but a death, that virtue of lives, where beauty wasn’t enough, and spirit
became abusive—as love to portals, those years at gates, that tugging at
Lazarus—to see our brains, pitted with Adam, affectionate for Eve, as mother
that died, this voice a freshman, our screams as seniors—
to
pass for passions, by acting maturely, at hells to wander that flame:
where
pigeons commiserate
while
breaking for cultures
our
appearance as detrimental: [(I can’t escape it, that current of feelings, a
leapfrog to terrors, where father warns, as carrying a torch, associated with
death’s reflection: that morbid glee, as afflicted by cadence, to cut a rope
racing to catch it—that pier of ships, as wrapped in vandalism, that misnomer
to guts, as sought a face, to win a heart, while effaced for claiming
communion: it’s wicked an art, and wicked a drive, while aloof from justice—as
met a scream, to transport particles, while afire one early morning: this space
as senseless, this mandatory investigation, while so detached angels are
mourning:
that
inner tepee, or those kettle’d brain-prints, as deep a soul-ache, insomuch, as
seaweed, by breath his life, fleeing to return, ignored and scarred: those
terrible limbs, our faces to sadness, my days absent to fantasies—as grieved
his life, while returned his actions, as conflicted without motion: this earnest
blankness, as akin to flatness, where such is much more detrimental: wherefrom,
a grimace, or a flawless neckline, or legs as pretzels, insomuch, as man’s
visions, to live that life, while wisdom listen’s to presence—that terrible passion, alive by tortures, at voices with
spirits, to expose a current, so deep an arc, as men want possession—that
animal of affairs, as learnt to share, while at internal rivalries)].
