this
abstract voyage so courted those
eyes possessed by Gucci brains; those
abstract fires, those abstract wires, our grannies as abstract ghosts: to dye
our portraits those denim missives
our Da Vinci wits. I’m edited, Love: so remote an island such Estēe Lauder exiles; that inner
graffiti so scribbled in glass our landmarks as nomadic; that travel to
graves, while splayed asunder, our repaired hydrants. [I’m feeling flat].
We
return to fire, excavated thorns, so enchanted but failing.
I
poked dominos, while staring at mirrors, this webbed obsession with imageries;
those graves as living that nomadic
syndrome those perfect thoughts
peering into perfect romances: if be it by screams, this pigment as living,
indebted to smoky sable eyes: that scar aflame as peaking its essence this photograph haunting Adonai. [Still flat]!
Let
courage flit, as trekking clouds, to reimagine freedom: that palette of
paints that enrooted angst our billion dollar feelings: if but to
perish as instilled to breathe our unedited caricatures. This exited process, as desiring stardom,
at more concerns to afloat by hearts; wherewith, are stories, by one ablaze’d
as young, our ceilings shifting as we glare.
[Wrestling]!
I
see a doctor, that veterinarian, those poodles so humble that arc; as deep to
riddles, that twofold path, as needing this life; to choose by wits this taboo texture our opus as hydrant dreams where mothers tiptoe as peeking at visions their limbs warring at cobwebs; that achy
spider, those picture perfected wounds, our cinema as so public an entity; as
known to faces, chasing for falling, to arise so driven in chaos: those
mnemonic tinges, as beige encounters, our brains obsessed with flying: if be it
our screams this pendulum aflame so possessed by possession!
You
inspirit love as raw and
unedited so far a scream for we must
comport: this secret to souls, as infatuated spirits, our legs trekking through
dreams: those violent shakes, to utter her name, racing through masquerades:
those penchant faces, that loud web, such furry to live while known to die;
that flying instinct those hogs to
brains that helicopter our ink
through veins— where arrows
rival this veil as self to catch a glimpse by ember.
We
charm through flame, this self deep our cores, fleeing through shrubberies those symbols by rage those desires as cages our keys as invisible brain-gates: that
mental screenplay, our passions on repeat, this sense of timelessness; where
fathers pace, while mothers gaze, as children tug at heart-images: that frantic
wind, as pushed a vase, where siblings kneeled in prayer; indeed, to
mindcaves that photo-artifact such to identify our life-prints;
wherefore, those interpretations or
sweltering charity our seconds far
erased sprinting through exorcisms: this love as concrete, our concrete-abstracts,
our deathless, untold glories.
[To
think of some brings joy: this unusual feeling].
