I
play for hearts a tragedy off-course where probability invades Iraq; this
platinum kiss, those porcelain manikins, that high-rise skycraft: if but to
perish, staring at another man’s dreams, a sad bit inflamed with seduction:
that Caucasian scream, those florid hips, by breasts for soul-patience; as flew
our coupes, this caged infatuation, while at tears to daydream. I ache
intelligence, at rivers as mediocre, by fantasies this memoir woman; where
death lives, as existence breeds, our gothic fingers. It comes to built(s),
this classic gem, at terrors to suggest he may have slept; indeed, this
literature of chaos, but to sylphs as lazy pajamas, whereas, too human to love
acacias. I broke silence; so manic as feral, while never an email; so more to
rejection, as fleeing through videos, at admiration this haunted house; to need
clarity, while balanced as dejected, to feel with joy this psych’s
temperaments: that scratching by scalp; that internal whisper; that sitting
while to trances our woman’s vulva: that treacherous womb; that gorgeous womb;
that essence through time a cadent odor: if but to live, speeding through
yellows, as torn to remember that perfect color. I dance purple to live through burgundy our glasses filled with beige; that
crooked self, at terrors to adore myth, where unsaid treasure has voided our
names; this casual picture, as leaning forward, to cut with ice-cycles this
warm furnace; as nevermore, this pash by brains, to come by office a tare
insane—this casual perspective, to smell but feet, while all to cadence this
vixen’s portrayal. I must to
live as must to perish while, nonetheless I reside in realities: that hectic
movement that crossing of legs to keep perspective this fractured
atmosphere. I loved a dream, as
captured a scar, to invest in steep remembrance: that griffin bleeding that cygnet aflame by thumps to memory our infant’s fame; as
wailed our feelings, as struck at emotions, to come to terms where damage
lives; our achy daughters, their frigid fathers, this force in woes as born
explosive; as mothers cry, while steeped in resurrection, this touch of brains
floored through dejections; as perished a friend, this inner psychologist, to
witness this sky-arc rebirth. [I sense love, this place of sewing, where
forever seems impermanent; this edgy swan, our cagey parents, this grand-soul
infusion: that trepid air-sign, those intrepid symbols, that course to works as
fleeing reality: if but to breathe, at terror our compass, to feel with life
this intractable essence—where mother resounds, as final that claim, while born
to lights a tad bit insane; but this to life, our immortal scar, this sin to
withdrawal affections: our French inheritance; our souls to wings, this space
in arcs that slippery thump]. I write
in pleasures; I compose in pains; I’m lost to fancies while born to logic—this
infant whining; our souls to millennia; this frank disposition our hearts; as
but to flee, as flung our brains, this brink to life as torn afar to fevers.
