I’m
driftwood, appalled and frightened, and ever so detached—to crumble
annihilation, this portal through time, a tear to alienation—that crying music,
those blues-veins, that jazzy soulprint—as died to love, an abbey rug, so
trampled by foot-scars: that terrible elation, this flux with winds, our
inwards praising chaos—to shun normality, that horrible placemat, where pigeons
ingest rice; that torn explosion, but so eclectic, our grandchildren musing
rosy literature: that false imprint, at fears by decades, those clutches by
horrid houses; as lived infatuation, retreating into caves, a soul fraught by
denials. I gripped a pillow, while
snatching guts, such Bhakti wreckage—to floor his brain, that image glaring,
our immortal parents—if but to live, soaring through blueprints, peering into
purple passions—where love was vacant, as love was present, our velvet and
ivory and cyan shames; where mother was born
so addicted to mourning those
Weldon taupe eyes as father
plummets those internal graves by ecstasy to excavate a scream. I never
knew it, so to dying for love, where Love forfeited our rights; as hellish
Decembers, our warmest winter, our tepee mental visions—as plural sensations,
to have struck a nerve, seated so near but so distracted—where privilege
becomes funerals, while heavy that terror, at loss so vague to words: that
casual elation by close a thought this mammoth by tears a clove as died a mind that permanent countenance those sad somber features; where gods
muse, our singers to treasuries, our days pushed that inner cymbal; insomuch, a
dream, this delicate soul, to crash by tremors those brains-over: a mere shadow
boxer, or a cunning man, so practical that injustice: our Denley lamps, while
plaguing hearts, our drumkits on reset—as, nevertheless, those months to
studies, leering into contours, at passions that spirit by leather: those
graphic vines, to implode thunder, that trek for running at a deep haze—where
psychs manage, that inner plethora, kneeling near a settee. I became flatware plagued by house-sitting probed by inner dimensions: those years as
anti that doctor as bipolar this dream by scientific stigmata(s)—where
souls are unipolar a palm to a smile those seconds but a spurt to ruin lives;
indeed, an Atwood desk, our reason at
travesties, while gleaming near a blank screen: that tremendous depression, at
fuel those hours, by sudden reach a masterpiece.
