I’m
a ghost, to flee participation, as needing those rejections—to portal time,
this clock blinking, as afloat a haunted house—to drag for culture, this
Egyptian Bastille, alive a second to resurrection—as cursed a swan, or evolved
as priceless, cutting into celery—to sense a priest, to adventure mystic rites,
affronted with hiccups; where mother loved, as best she could, this man a fist
of apologetics: that ritual psych, as afforded by mercies, while time came that
psychologist; indeed, a rapture, our bodies to convolutions, this rhythm
leaving its quarters; as never to die, as living out deaths, this weft cemented
in chins—as broken to pounds, to choke up his guts, by tears an innocent swan;
that contradiction, as policed with nonsense, while ever an excuse. [I lived
forever, captured in theatre, aflame this mortal burst—that furniture
melting those eyes screaming our dilemma too tipsy to compose;
thitherto, a fixation, to carry a tornado, while therapists attempt to
unlatch—that furious brain, seated in compact rooms, too afraid to broach
infinity: that achy trauma, while angered concerning bull-dung, to ruin therapy
prior to seeking healing. We come to
lights, this field of feelings, where good requires our attention; as hitherto,
this vague expression, while bleeding this plain racist. I could to live, if more to die, reading
for dreaming that immortal swan; as bent a slither, or that slither to ruins,
while grandparents wonder of a perfect daughter; to die that vision, exploded
within, while lies seem to convince; indeed, to terrors, as cursed for
believing, as that last story became offensive. We die to life as to live by lives while all-the-more our souls are
cringing]. I met a friend, this unlikely
survival where one is too detached to
feign successfully; but this is living
this compass bleeding, where success becomes impossible; but more to
fools as finding that myth while others revue conveying
disenchantment. It must exist, this
daughter as an empire, out mothers learning to subsist: if but to lithium out metaphysicians where infinity becomes a rug fraught with
mildew. I spoke with physicists, to
ponder chi, while affected too deeply to contend: this place of cadence; this
woman as immortal; that feeling as elusive; where shaking becomes tremors, or
love becomes fantasies, while aches become concentration; to ponder adventure,
at travels those seas, where Poseidon alerts us to pure folly. [I feel through purpose, too cold to
return, at terrors that one is pressing his depression—while this is nature,
those selfish dreams, to court with purpose to destroy; that American Dad, as jested in Family Guy, where a queen has focused
upon Prince Charles—that movie cringing, as to fathom worth, where possible
some refute those bills—as living insanity, while crazed for perfection, to render
an inadequate thought: that courage-mile, those platinum panties, to realize it
renders as not enough. We could to panic, our lanterns out of oil, this vision
as imploding brains—while to die a fever, as reversed in thoughts, where defeat
becomes this tale of jealousy]. I
think to peace effective but a
moment where cygnets jog this inner
man: that casual goodbye, as implying richness, while fools ponder upon
longevity; as something potent, this elusive spell, as nothing to extract from—where
fragments linger, that inner lingerie, while never a heartbeat—to flurry with
rites, while confused by dreams, this extravagant woman reciting eulogies; but
this is life, this play for leverage, while mingled in self, (That ghost was chasing); our vocal trefoils,
to sprout with intention, where Love becomes withdrawn: this inner music, that
dirge of concerns, where others have vied for elations—those electric arcs,
that favor as bleeding, our waves as chasing doorposts; while, nevertheless,
beauty is raging, this place of insights, where one is lax for approaching with
certainties; to love by design, to know for courting, where said love becomes
fabricated—for hearts are tugged, while detached from feelings, where fools die
as victims.
