Remembrance, Love, Tragedy

I love us, some sort to sickening, at variances controlling myths—that cranky ache, as elusive this touch, while filled an uncanny nuisance; that typical emotion, or atypical explosions, to have for seconds that fire behind hearts: this welkin laugh, as pure excitement, our features exposed to blind eyes.  I love us dying, as never to deaths, occasioned this sin.  I love us clashing, as moons erect, our temperaments infused by mercies—this elaborate ritual, to find his focus, arousing an inner city.  It tore heaven, angelic mischief, this song buried in precious eyes: those cold shivers, as warm winters, plucking auburn tulips.  I die to feel it, this cadence of richness, appalled by passions; where love blossoms, as filled with anxieties, to realize this person is love: that candid filter; those raging cries; that volt too steep to ignore.  I fly as fleeing, to arrive at courtyards, our church-grounds infuriating mystics: as nights grew, our unsafe expressions, this cadence as mutual vulnerability—if but his song, if but our nectar, if but to perish—I’d love as dying, or live as flying, to rapture with curses—this bold endeavor, as ever we sought—this space in souls, aloft.  I love us grieving, this inmost beauty, to arrive that super-glow: that making of children; that sweet guitar; our jazz forwarded by a thousand afflictions; as but to perish, as but to live, as but again heavy this dynasty; as, nevertheless, our vile blueness, for rivers have dried, where oak trees are sprouting: our paranoid barks; our inner sky-deaths; this voice as seasoned with inner demons: as brought to life, to re-measure life, too infused this fuse that once satiated.  I see us waltzing, our pits desiring more, this moreness invading psychologies: those desert psychs, at wars with our magi, afflux a tendency to cry as provoking elements—this driving animation, our cartoons to brains, this ache as sudden his cranium: that spurt of growths, this gorgeous travesty, as more I jest; to die with weathers, as sprouting with huts, this book but a brook of sparrows.        

I love us chasing, at pace with gorillas, to sever but a second by gods; this inner pyramid, that sphinx at leisure, our detriments bleeding our treasuries—to see for cultures, this slant to thoughts, where it becomes terrible to analyze; indeed, a curse, as forced to love, where inner activity outweighs this morbid millennia.  I felt a feeling, as abreast with emotion, to carve this legacy: that immortal swan, as ringing infinity, to come to seconds as blank at motions: this face screaming; our mystics wailing; our songs as sold in silence; insomuch, a scar, this incredible rhythm, as avoiding attributes.  Ours stands at textures, so gruesome a second, to flux with sulfur as arising a vessel: that time of thieves; our temples to brains; our heats to engines.   

Mirrors by Blinded Images

We forge images, while forgetting images, as exclaimed that privy palace—to break brains, as welding chains, our mothers vying for control: that Spanish wedding; those African brooms; our inner fiestas—where tetras lives, this welting of boulders, our pieces flushed debris—as cadent wisdom, as flew his arc, while at love this ferocious innocence: our inner grannies, as wailing at walls, offended by mirrors: that song-fire, our attire bleeding, those Prada terrors.  I could, my Love; as spaced a soul, our bones rejecting marrow: that furious whisper; those furious psychs; this one-sighted dilemma—as birthed through sin, at wars through sins, at claves through channels—that ghostly ache, those tickling prickles, that whoosh to living-rooms—as told we died, that sudden laughter, as shocked for amazed that resurrection.  I forgot mirrors, while teasing mirrors, as lives this vile expression: that gristle curse, that inner ventriloquist, this hankering for love as thought immortal—that fowl aflame, that phoenix adrift, this inner kleptomaniac—as torn for paired, or paired for violent, or violent for calmness—that kiss bleeding, our webs as confused, this fusion as debated in furies.  We become, Love; this man as trespasses; so abused he breathes with courage: that infant crawling; that filthy oasis; our valleys by deaths purported for evilness; to clench as dying, to whisper as crying, to tug for pulling while rejecting intimacies: that cold fever, our inner oceans, this cup of oxygen—if but to die, this wind at cages, but never we perish—as adrift a current, filtered for framed, as forgetting his mirrors—that revolving glass; that ceiling staring; this inverted us; as mother laughed, to provoke embarrassment, to encourage obedience—this mockery of fools, our David Paradises, our Solomon legacies—that myriad blinking, this found refugee, our psychs at courage infused with research—as humans perish, this spectrum of numbers, our independent variables: as clashed his life, to offend through pressures, a bit offended with treacheries—as opposed to treacherous beauty, to possess catastrophes, as bleeding he lived aflame.  We become, Love; that rabid calmness, this undying affinity—that lived an ache, as scarred for destroyed, while dropping from skies: this vex screaming, our fathers as rabid, our mothers as deeply occasioned—to love but cotton, as smeared by filth, to relax a moment to kindness: this inner text, as but a ringing phone, our therapists laughing at inanities: to cry his life, while nudging by degrees, to plant for weapons this curse.  I saw Swanships, aloft an empire, fraught by illustrations: that furious music, this classical art, our Grecian infinities—as traveled to Spain, but a trip to cities, as effused tripping his liquor: that sober nightmare; those drunk philanthropists; that priest a bit tipsy that nun—as exploding silence, our parts to brains, this meal as livid tyranny—to pardon his life, that inch by escapes, to courage his symphony: that red cadenza; that blue aria; that beige opera—where Love peers, as watching comedy, a tear to heartcaves: if but to fly, our aches so rich, to invest as we have never existed: this bold deluxe, this watch reversed, our ageless youth.  I’m buffing mirrors, to remember deaths, this thought that silence means contentment—as frantic to return, to slam a cocktail, to be tossed to and fro: this music she lived, as claustrophobic, a child too much for Satan: that inner belief, our closets by memories, this running from self committing similar acts: those new traumas, as compounded deeply, where mother nourishes as producing a nightmare.  I’m buffing mirrors, as demolishing mirrors, those shards—those thousand faces [as faceless a dream, while faithful to faces, this faceless mystic—as steep his brains, this revote for clearance, our personhood as plebian(s); to courage a swan, while revolving sea-storms, at tyrannies concerning this vex at terrors—those gray mirrors, as barely an image, to induce an inner tsunami: that psych sensing, this particular feature, as pulling by subtleties—to know those thoughts, as invested in science, where closure becomes this carnival of facial clowns].           

Adrift A Songbird Peering At Swanic Fuses

We up-pour, murmuring legacies, seeking discreet council: that bag of failures, adjusted by hopes and dreams, our cadence with para-realities—this mental sky, our wintry larks, this cat with a dragon’s brains—as nails to wood, at flux to care, where emotion unbolts serenity; that cry to oceans, seasoned through traumas, syndicated by tragic uprisings—that core to fields, aloof by compassion, sectioned at those tales of abrasions: this critical crises, where love is unwanted, while one scurries through intimate reflections: our castles bleeding; our analysis with patience; this thin film alienating logistics—that fine thread, as elastic motives, at desires for souls unaddressed: this inner antic, so graphic by scars, becoming by an uncanny product. 

{I see you, Love; so brave a vision, adrift an inner prism—those tender thoughts, as alive-dreaming, frantic to succeed; that driven axis, this fulcrum of minds, our inner interviews—where silence fuses, as focused by motion, while openness wins hearts: this frightened intimacy; our cages singing; this feeling by whiffs of flowers: indeed, to seasons, this flux of pressures, to exhaust spiritual frequencies.  Our mothers anxious; afforded a scream; where granny nudges through kindness: our psychological(s); our epistemic(s); our flow through sky-nature}.  I’m at variances, Love; that need to evoke, where angst speaks to persistent waters—that shift by tugs; that gradual deterioration; our baseboards eroding—where vexation laughs, as mental wreckage, this rivalry by inner-council;—as jazz blazes, and parents reminisce, while elders plant seeds—insofar, occasioned by whispers, as urged to speak, our nine year olds fraught by wisdom.            

We harvest parallels, seated aglow, fevered within—this purchase by disciplines, that wafting sky, this remote empty of buttons—as pushing frantically, invested in unreality, while forbade’n council: that mincing of abrasions; that tension bursting pipes; this singleness by perfections; notwithstanding, those chimes as whistles, our destinies constructed, our wishful thoughts pegged by determination—to chase insistence, as investigating motives, where gristle becomes steel—or perish, those highlighted appeasements, where operas fail to illuminate.

Our tragic rails, trekking to perfection, afforded a flurry of fabulous fixtures: that steep contentment; that reaching as reaching back; those skies as livid your skies—where poodles fawn, as cats decorate, at terrors to find this steep comfort; indeed, aloft a terror-blind, as sighted an infant, or more this determination to vet a fancy; while, nevertheless, muscles are churned, earth has sung, and reality disgusts that faintest of hearts—as climbing leverages, while seeking figs, to come with art that tender conclusion.  Our perfections crying; our algorithms deluding perceptions; this furious flower too fragrant for failure!     

I drift currents, astray at times, a bit agitated with life—this bold adventure, attempting at patience, even through guidance: this anxious person, imposed upon by composure, at desires to re-construct his motives: this changing of souls, tears to emptiness, while carving luxuries: that inner image, as giving perfection, at terrible dislikes; to fret vehemently, occasioned for releases, where such pain has brought crises such joy. 

Our Fires

What for lies, this feeling unreal, to chase at pace with lionesses—this small vessel, as molehill madness, as maniac simplicity—to courage this storm, while infused by charm, at analytical arms: this treacherous melody; this calm chaos; this system distorted by straight lines—as cold his river, to bathe as freely, while freedom becomes cuffed: this inner woman, this fragile man, those tears as reaching his guts—to sudden a puddle, as carved from wounds, to evoke Bhakti passions:

            that steep devotion, as cut, bleeding bibles—affected for demented, too sane for converse,

            as never before, rattling ghostly chains—that marvelous torture, those bulbous cries, our

            innards, revved, this cagey trespass—as feeling malaise, this subtle anxiety, racing

            through profiles—as livid terrors, to escape, sipping, while our phoenix mourns—this

terrific mercenary, at full autonomy, our skulls mincing manure—as fertile land, our caves weaving, our miracles slithering by honesty: that inner cord, to afford those waves, our cultic dance; where love soared, as dancing through tsunamis, this raging sea—at pleas, Poseidon, at rills, Jesus, at confusion, Our Ghost—to floor faces, this bathing in dusts, this inner bedbug—that infestation, Isaiah’s pus, or Jeremiah’s clinical depression—to crystal lungs, roaring with vengeance, at mercies that humble pie:

where mother reels, as hooked with deaths, this traveling through memories—that woman bleeding, as paved to dusks, while swooping into air-fire—as caged eternal, to break one link, as shattered—for falling into dungeons—that unyielding love, that sworn repentance, our music rejecting this pace of closeness—while ever by closure, to believe unremitted thoughts, where pushing becomes shoving—this tour by nights, our muscles

to spasms.  [Dreams are singing, some sort of flower, to cross paths choking words: that inner venom, or sheer relaxation, or something that voice of traumas: those agony-wings, as left with sorrow, while tugging for running a billions eyes: that inner renegade, that humble mother, that drained physicist—as behaved a soul, at tensions this life, somewhere a jasmine crush—where pelicans speak, and fireflies wrangle, while eagles flip through clouds—that passion, our minds, as cursed this drizzle, while tiles become vocal: to cringe a feeling, while to cherish said feeling, insomuch, as confused]:

that trenchant pinch, this mental modality, our sensorium haywire—as plunged her soul, our minds adrift, to come to spheres refusing acknowledgments: that terrible beauty, as felt a genius, too wise for mere overtures: that soul-cadenza, that eye’s aria, this credenza harboring pressures—if but to live, as never he thought, this inner possibility—those achy bones, our passions suffocated, this wisdom concerning exposure—if but to love, while believing in solace, where perfection is isolated:

that casual wind, those valleys to memories, our prayers captured by upsurges.  I’ve said nothing, as crying through souls, this opaque feeling—as nebulous sighs, or candid motives, our children sensing existentialisms: that brook to brains; that phoenix to souls; our rites as revealing; indeed, to mercy, as swimming rabidly, to come to our inner mentor: that myriad of voices, as mother, father, or officials: as teachers, psychs, or memory missiles; as scars, love, or insanity.       

We Perceive Love

By deathless love, this wellic high, to taste that fortune of breath; those cold gardenias, our antic pressure, our rapture as simultaneous; nevertheless, our wailing nightsong, afforded this future, our thrumming catastrophe; by which, was terror, those supernal eyes, but texture so courageous with fears: to starve insanely, at essence writhing, such by ultimatum our skeptic skies.  We wilted rain, ashamed by feelings, too fast, too furious—as humbled hyenas, or ferocious jaguars, our opiate instincts: that fleet of premises, as captured by screams, our telic but stoic enchantments: that lake of sentiments, those grains of soil, our knuckles some type to language—as mere peasants, so perfect to passions, so elegant a simple montage—that wreath of demons, at cadence our scars, to add snakes to mirrors adoring our tortures; hereto, an actress in mourning, by far seduction, that escapade in London: those fragile lungs, our beating cymbals, this pull at negligence—if but his mind, to wade that rue of deaths, our pinions to meadows dejected: this screaming fiction, as rapt’d in turmoil, this cry for life as one fatal composition; to ache as weather, born of ecstasy, embraced by theatrical travesties: such pale advice, this bouquet of wisdoms—essentially, wailing, We live—if but at parishes, our stark confessions, to ravish skies embedded in nightfall(s); this pasture of pagans, our lungs needling love, to deliver this requisite of simplicity—that inner requirement, as comfort to infants, such by exile those public squares.  We fiddle vignettes, immersed in candent affairs, at shivers to witness to nuance: this inner bract, that flute of petals, that tub of oil beads—as framed in jitters, or aflame a curse, while electrified by sheer kismet: that naked weaving, as time evades capture, this mingling that something aside: our furnace raptures; our venial fibs; this shifting as sharing our helm; to evoke chains, this fetter by souls, to gallop daybreak by frameworks: if but to live, laughing freely, that inner nudging tamed; where souls ravish, this landscape of actualizations, ebbing through differences: that bold gesture, as cedarchest-joys, to afford one a new perspective—such flawless love, those turquoise daisies, this indelible dye.  [If love to live for, than love to die for, that incurable gravity—those tender captures, as awakened an ark, to fly with graces—that trenchant ache, as inner earthquakes, aflame our sky-treasures—those jasper gestures, as lives this inner self, to feel through caves insanity: our pardoned jests; therewith, a dream; to have as curses our remarkable hell-evasions: that outer miracle, as driven features, to expect guidance: such steep converse, our morning coffee, our midnight snacks—as watching figures, while loved as perfect, such laughter as reflexive; to witness reflection, that sudden tremor, while gazing at hopes; hereto, are hearts, as closer with fire, a revolution to brains].      

Tender Those Whispers

As but distance, this radical instance, those fumes our dementias—afloat canyons, that sky-drop sanity, our swans so Cajun with fire—those kites as eyes, this flickering, stirring, at snaps to perish living its cadence—our music dying, our notes to keys, our symbols screaming thunder: this craving feeling, to divest this mask, this welt to guts reaching for portals: those exotic fruits, that erotic color, this city of sky-brains [if but to live, that immediate expectancy, this river so steep his slithering bellies—those dragon-bars, our snakes at prayers, this layer our closed mouths—as sung his devils, this psychotic fever, as purposed for presence those cries] to live evermore, this cagey awareness, our palms gripping windowsills—as if he loved, while ever he died, to come to terms reaching for helmets—that armor bleeding, his bones to wars, our tendons tugging at roots.  {I remember drillings, that aria as sung, this delusion such captive dementias—to curse his heart, our travels afar, our souls as Ethiopians—those silent flints, as witness to vows, as sons of anarchy—this penchant fig, as broke insanity, to crave but a second as slithering—to wax eloquence, our loquacious tears, this fiddling pathos—where daughters fry, as infused a scream, seated with mother debating futures: that welling will, those pagan cauldrons, this feature as peeking while secluded within;—to render by secrets, this force in brains, to alert a socket this fuse to burgundy cries}.  I know your flame, where most are lingering, there effects as dormant.  I know your arc, as fleeing for rapture, to sit as seated enduring introjects: that early daughter, peering at mother, a bit to miracles our fathers: that steep addiction; those cyan seconds; this plethora of personalities; as never was uttered, as sung to silence, where moments kill for purpose as flying—that edgy soul, while steep with friction, this inner dungeon—as visits his life, our cuffs smelted from flesh, our brains an image of electricity—insofar a curse, this love-agony, our candy-canes our scarred memories—that mirror laughing, as demented our thoughts, this portal in rain where doves cry—that raging ache, as slammed a lion, this kitten purring our sentiments—as, therewith, this humanitarian, this oath to evolve, this feeling as tugged so close to God’s brains—that dying calamity, those indwelling aches, this fury for disposed as a partial maniac—to cry her life, as died his veins, our methodical heresies!  [We film perfection, our calligraphy weeping, to choreograph a daymare—those soft angers; that cried insanity; this balance as tested this inner voice—to squirrel through deserts, our camel’s guts, this Antarctic windstorm—as swimming dusks, our bathing dusts, this fuss as maniacal hysteria: those sudden leaves; that sky-blackened-soot; this parish that inner god our lights—we could to live, as grieving our gardens, this paranoia so close to Eden].  I’ll remember desertions; I’ll remember those battling warriors; I’ll perish a list of names for that tribunal—as extinguished with breath, or flying wingless, at captures to control this inner damage: our cold grip, punching into snowstorms, fleeing for returning our calm atmosphere—those steep desires, to want that love, if but to evolve that second at tears: this movie bleeding, that thump at secrecies, this cinema as blaring Beethoven—or hearts to skies, alive at Sia, sketchy for mud this mental extravagance—indeed, to laugh, if but to crawl, if but to know silence.  {You held tightly, this perfect fool, to die so with passion: this elevation, our annihilation, this birth dormant in truffles—as cried our arc, this flipping dolphin, as wild to voice this extravagant message—that steep massage, as livid its tyranny, to come by kisses whispering after vexes—that portal chasing, those waves soaring, our rites as cursed to prisons—where addiction films, this want for normality, while normal becomes this excruciating project—where eyes grimace, or resentment sings, as we find our sun shining upon tender ambitions}. 
                   

Rainbow Guitar

I must to sin, this grin blazing, this man at deaths—our deep in-currents; our steep clarinets; our daughters at communion—as laughed a soul, this cyan swan, our gravid cygnets—that husband cagey, as graphed in transgression, that linguistic heart-pear: if but to die, as laughed our souls, so bold that November trespass—where mother paged, that inner intercom, this rage of fiery palms.  I’m caged a fan, at spins by summer, this closet too full for merchandise; and still to die, and still to laugh, and still to hold brushes: that antic spinning; that father winning; those grins disguising, I see you; where gramps signed, as delivering that hatchet, our grannies too steep to retreat: this courage bleeding; that son at dolphins; to flip through currents straddling a bear.  I see us framing, this make-believe game, while sealed at Satan’s trestle: those whining demons, that screaming mother, our brothers praying close to violins—as harnessed his brains, to enclose his soul, this jest as laughing while purposed for rebirths: that cryptic temple; those cultic practices; this love for deaths that destroyed innocence: our fathers drinking; our mothers puffing; our grandparents pleading sobriety.  I ask to math, for much that mercy, a friend you wouldn’t deny—as cadent candescence, or garnets at play, this garland as singing but slavery—if but to love, as gripping for passion, this flight through intimacies.  We live it crashing, this soul knocking, while doors remain closed: that simmering crock-pot; that inner ferret; that desert mosquito: as livid brains, accursed for breathing, this game our gods are instructing: this spirit weaning, as graduating infancy, to come to closure bleeding insanity: our riveting spells, as to retreat with time, while all for embraces that restricted curse.  I could to vanish, as time must dictate, at heart to touch but silence that womb: our bold intrusion, as worried he died, while at markets this hush of penalties—that crazed villain, as more to exile, to flee as an outburst in Jerusalem: that pineapple skin; our swords to guts; our lands invaded by Syrians…if but to times, this cycle of life, our twitter born presidents.  {I late-night a feeling, as killing his bones, to know that love would exist but a week; for souls are ravished, designed to flourish, while a seeker rarely sits still: our daughter’s flute; this man’s spasms; our cities abroad as drilling that journey—as mothers bend, this thin reality, finding with essence this curs-ed life: those flippant lungs; that melody wretched; those feelings streaming through, Aretha Franklin—as told to fly, as refusing to die, at lands so permanent as to sin—those cold glaciers, that warm furnace, this refinement as killing our souls.  I treasure laughter, to see it with jealousy, as confined to find it in privacy—this privy voice, those smiles by travel, our eyelashes winking—if but a curse, this lavish languishing, to spew with crime a menacing kiss—where fathers sang, as adrift through chimes, this firefly as rebuking our pleasures; indeed, to live, as fueled a poet, this land so spoiled with travesty—to live existence, as bold to flurry, at tiers piled in a pyre of resurrections: those flitting brains, as afloat but captured, to love this song as dying its curse: this land fleeing, our love mangled, our whetstone to feet while running—for death was gentle, this curse his mind, as never an excursion—to love as willing, while to come to adjustments, to fracture a segment of reality: that woman dreaming, as but that fraction, to have as friend a restricted stranger—as torn to laugh, where tears would fall, this vestibule an extravagant wall—as speaking French, or murmuring tongues, to shout at sudden this three tier, Logos; as beige our brooks, or lavender our rivers, while violet our majestic rain: that savage waning; that theory as vocal; those travesties as reported segments of love—where hearts are pure, extracted from caves, this essence as bleeding our sentiments: those scarred monsters, that beautiful tragedy, our arts as vehicles explaining misery—as so far that spring, as sung that mountain, our frantic fires}!   

At Essence, Love

Gravity, Love—to echo your life, acacia feelings—as drilled a carcass, those bones wailing, as screamed, Our Father—that music crying, our mothers vying, this need for centerpieces. I laugh fire, seated but glowing, writhing in comas—that instrumental, those clarinets, that tiny cricket—abed a scar, swatting fumes, while fraught that giggle: to perish insanity, as soon to glisten, as granny once knew—that beige future, that burgundy desert, this need to feel good—at terrors nightfall, at mirrors daybreaks, this film stationed at Brains: if but to live, appeasing for sanctity, while charmed to perish: this fatal abrasion, as rebirthing your sights, a wiggle for a volt!  I sought cymbals, clanging river-life, at fillet those locusts—our mother’s frown, as seeping through souls, where sudden that enriching appeal—as gramps to die, as forwarded affliction, to arise those days by ashes—those pelican wings, that grasshopper’s graduation, this waxing for buffing while steeped in turmoil—as battle ensues, those blues to brains, at black-ties laughing hysterically.  [We behave, Love; our cadence grumbling, our arcs rabid—to witness destruction, as lives construction, this breaking for rebuilding—that inner location, as sprouts a tulip, this rose seated to furnaces—as grimaced an ache, to arise a sore, as abroad sheer reality—that casual spring, to dream as swans, where father scoops cookies with cream—that crème amore, those restless sighs, our mothers proffering hot cocoa.  I die to see it—this method to love, as, nevertheless, it ushers an ego’s tears—those sudden cringes, as growth to gardenias, as a lotus opens: our tender skin, to winds with fury, those volts to travel by destiny—if but to waft, accustomed to singing, where moments shift our mental monopolies: this cyan lizard; those green bees; that camel bathing in dusks—as but to flee, that gravid return, as battered for conquered laughing by rules—where mothers vanish, a pizza to souls, upon capture to defend a nightmare: that evening cigar; that glass of ice; that clear invisibility; indeed, to live, as more to flourish, our runny noses]!  I treasure by stars, peering at horoscopes, a bit to feeling funny: that brave heart, those golden windmills, that jasmine Cyclops—as embedded brains, to forward affliction, withstanding Medusa’s gaze—those grazing field-bugs, that element of psychologies, this threat to becoming a real human—if but to fly, as dreamed our caves, at turmoil concerning happiness—that philosopher’s madness, as mal-to-life, while engraved in plight-wood: those turquoise scars, as dreamt a surgeon, to arise sectioned by a new arc—that stream driven, that swan swimming, those psychs at steady construction—to have for feelings, this space in-between, while rivaling our human instincts—as becoming localized, this inward terror, where mother appears—as music to guts, or flame to spirits, at essence vying for this frantic face-ship.  [I heard a feeling, at needs to respond, while aching this shivery chi: that beige sword, as sudden to reappear, while thrust for bleeding while standing reborn; those swanic eyes, that swanic brain, this explanation as reaching insanities—those bold grannies, that mental racetrack, that uncle to souls as aflame a scar—where hearts save face, as rebuked internally, cleaving to this last chase: that infant crying; that father laughing; that mother by nerves screaming; at terrible heights, where love is solid, as pure black-for-white—this gray he claimed, as running afar, to abstract a particular alliance; but to hell to scars, as dreams to swans, this woman our best endeavor; as ported afar, this ship of rainbows, this pirate at therapies—to culture life, afraid to fly, this feeling as that good adventure:—to ache eternally, while cleaving eternally, to awaken at stark realizations: this missing of life; this immortal swan; our days to recouping from ashes—as life’s a phoenix, we can’t escape, as scraped for bruised at internal reservoirs].  

We love exponentially. It becomes tangible. We perish to maintain thunder. 

I Dreamt But Wings

I listen but deserts, this elicit wilderness, as to brooks our Spanish screams—as tall tales, this soul-cell, our vacant trance-phone: that livid lightning, as beige discernment, this future at mystic yesteryears.  I hear silence, this captive frequency, our yells screeching thunder: that Zenist River, our southern baptisms, this winter by genetics—to arise bleeding, as sweat trickles sulfur, our baths seated in electric chairs: that cold distance, as rapt’d by dangers, those labels affronting our mirrors.  I’m opera born, this ballad comedian, our orbs as harpoons—that wicked grin, as infused to die, at terrors that sleeping cadence—that moment crying, as swooped a vulture, our rabbits fleeing through meadow-storms: that skycraft, as sky-silver, at terrors this sky-center: our airwaves, as air-caves, this slave by natural birth: our pensive reality, sipping but condemned, as if we all seek sobriety: that achy soulquake, to judge by reflection, at errors those that appear as difference: this warm winter, as our cold summer, this fulgent performance—to laugh his brains, rebuking engrams, this introject threatening sanity—as tempest Spaniards, or nomad Egyptians, this swan nibbling for breakage our divinities—as born silky, our slime to mud-drifts, our mothers at terrible conclusions—where apes ravish, as gorillas vanish, our wives flatulent by graces.  I knew treachery, this flame at dice, where demons appeared—this ludic thought, as abbreviated with passion, flipping through a thunderclap: that intrepid swan, that ancient name, our saffron begonias—as Asian rites, this swoosh of winds, to cry our lagoon as mere eye-prints; hitherto, this lulling current, at theories to believe in justice: those sunray muscles; that firefly heart; this thief our wilderness as accustomed to private echoes—where mother cries, as dead a leaf, this emotional harvest—to laugh his arc, as filled with sentiments, that three year chip.  I should to vanish, as should to appear, clutching this woman’s church-bell: that inner rosary, those flickering sparks, this wax as cementing our arrangements: those laughing priests, as distracting heresies, to come to grips this lethal anchor—as never a soul, to die this wealth, our adventure by heirloom seas: that heartbeat-sermon; that sky-communion; that blast as fire igniting his journey—where father smiles, as steeped in essence, our grandparents steeply in trance—as caustic rites, to invade his guts, this spell absorbed.  I mirror patience, reacting to snowballs, while pushing for bleeding this lance; this serpent lust, as a serpent mélange, while potent a serpent’s repentance.  We must retreat, while billows are rising, this swan an alchemic sword—as granny lives, this augury of information, this rune of silence—to purchase by thoughts, this incredible memory—so young a cave-beat; as unphysical mystics, this pensive kismet, this whisper at stipples those screams; herewith, an anchor, peering at hazel eyes, afraid that love shall die—if but to brooks, or Spanish insights, where love would resurrect; but ever to deaths, this place about souls, as becoming sacral our Holy Cross; at truths, this dimension, as epistemic trances, to feel this subjective conviction—where gramps forges clocks, those ancient antiques, as granny nudges perfection—this space at arcs, to infuse a tsunami, this fireball laughing while tearing but lobes: indeed, but christic; indeed, but feelings; indeed, but foreign assaults rifting through insanity—those turquoise trembles, as friendly with time, a bit too photic for human perception—that cultic yogi, as this morbid academic, as, too, this one generating happiness—as laughs his brains, affronted that terror, afire this gravid fixture: this flapping of feathers; this tremendous as grayness; that woman too proud to subject—so more to honesty, to utter, We love you, while spent in time a vessel of dying.  I’m seeing gums, that marvelous laughter, as extant this saber-existence: that sudden splendor; that steep explosion; this want for graphic warfare—as never a crime, as to hewn perfection, while tender this want for death—that inner other, as liquid insanity, to clash at currents those dreams. 

We Live Our Propositions, To Posit Our Dreams

So dead to silence, aloof through cycles, at tears this inner vex—to tense metaphysics, as cursed a scream, at dreams our psychic physics—to capture swans, this tale of pirates, as soft but driven those times.  We seek closure, this commonality, as refusing to thrust a volt; to laugh, as, nevertheless, to feel but comatose—this wicked pleasure, as evil cadence, arising as one spent by pleasures: our cruel existence, at flux through portals, at love those cries.  It could but feelings, to ignore such dying, while cleaving to absence: those beige rivers, our inner Sierras, this queen cooking breakfast—to tether a thought, at rifts to perish, those enchanting thighs—as marvelous detrimental(s), or Cajun instrumentals, this man too exclusive—where crime cherished, this art of Satans, those hearts invoking, Isabella—or deaths to life, this testing of souls, to give but essence time but souls—this inner math, as outer cries, our secrets to feel as wholesome—therewith, a scar, this terrible friend, insofar, as our mental guidance. 

We would to fancies, as lives a miracle, leering but finish-lines; those sexual acrobatics, this cloister in minds, our guilt while torched within—those jasper daisies, as to visit our sanities, those exercised arms; this killing of souls, our childhood mascots, those laps as barely breathing; while bold to flourish, as cut to grizzle, this grit as purpose as dreams—as, notwithstanding, our trickster brains, while believing deception those deer eyes.  We famish softly, a fortnight of fasting, where elements become jumbled: that brave swan; that reaching sibling; our imperfect perfections: if but a pot, our broiled chicken, those onions wafting through membranes—our child-reach screams, that inner teddy, our cats too selfish for sexy—as torn a cord, or vexed a villain, our daughters ingesting behaviors—those tall tales, as verses actions, to come to terms spewing venom.  [Our skies are cold, this bathing by fires, to flee as outrunning our mirrors—this beige current, as aloof to violence, while our sheets speak to warfare: this terrible pressure; those horrible pleasures; our mothers laughing at innocence].

We grapple images, debating scars, this woman too vicious that faint by hearts—as gorgeous scenery, or stage-life insanity, too appealing by feeble gestures: those sunlit eyes, that lethargic, Yes, where loins rupture as bleeding through cloth: those terrible tortures, to win such legacy, this funeral craving its last dance—where father laughs, as corners to souls, to pilfer our refrigerators: those spoiled greens; that peach-fuzz chili; that stalwart nectarine—as, too, to smile, our wives ranting, this feeling by souls a miracle: that chanting derrière; those manicured breasts; that boisterous laughter—as nigh maniacal, or ever psychotic, to catch a glimpse while feeling uneasy; indeed, her life, as running for perfections, this chase as becoming resentments: those porcelain knees; this kneading of personas; this waistline as far unbearable.   

Such infatuation, by mere a glance, our poets as maddened insanities—those cyan blouses, that blasé affection, this feeling as lurking while arms fail to reach: if but to die, this kiss flailing wolves, our coyotes chasing foxes: that horrid embrace; as livid a scar; to open wounds laughing while steeped at love; this miracle confession, to perish those trimmed bangs, embarrassed by highlights: that new invention, as becoming, Simone, or broken a heart beating gloom—as arisen his mind, our inner humanities, this armoire of fantasies: that phantom brain, to swoop through darkness, as appearing a second into manifestos—this gleaming portrayal; that lingering soul-press; this ink to wounds that bladder of fruits; to hold her life, as cores churn, affected by tears.              

Valleys Our Tremendous Cries

I rub her forehead, dreaming her cadence, aloof, feeling sorrows—as tomorrow screams, this seal unfolded, our rapture fleeing during climaxes; that bold texture, those felt volts, our audible at low frequencies: those cyan cries; that orange vest; this construction as ruined our days.  I invest a legacy, peering at reflections, our grandparents alone that steep understanding—where mother shifts, that bride’s gown, our scarves bleeding scarlet—that crimson Keri, those horrors at rivers, this Freddy Krueger—as poets vie, at terrible cadence, to perish those sentences reaching our Pons.  I fail to feel, those treacherous scars, at sudden this gut as torn asunder; as, thitherto, those inner images, to break with silence unable to speak; this primitive mind, at rich aphasia, a tear too mystic—if charged our brains, as standing trial, to aflame that tribunal—that hand reaching, as broken mirrors, such as shards forming his dreams—this segment in self, to realize deaths, at permanent cycles: our daughter’s flute, that lute to life, this leaping for captured—that broiled chop, those blueberry wines, this person some to thought—as chilled in fires, or fires to icicles, as a furnace nears Atlantis: our cut lobes, this genetic fracture, our Jewish screams; to reckon he died, our inner overseers, that woman a scar at beauty’s planet: indeed, vexation, this academic, our curriculum bleeding our intellects—to fancy love, as garden hips, as grasshopper thighs—where lusts drift, to seize his dreams, while frightened this curriculum called, Distance: this movie riven; that grave by pillows; our fathers at purgatory; where priests appear, at love with nuns, this fever at treasures aloft Rome; therewith, this steep attraction, if but to ruin life, our days knitting lexicons—as flowing freely, those eyes his brains, this woman his flames—as cold to music, enlove with aches, to chuckle while vomiting passions—that steep lagoon, that Daffy Duck, this privilege afforded our Bugs Bunnies—to vamp by credence, this credulous death, our inverted rapture—where never she could, as ever she thought it, while at shames to rebuke it.  This heart to screaming     our arcs to bleeding     our violet testimonies—as blank our meadows, forever our sins, our closets fraught by devilish hosts: if but to laugh, while sipping cognac, our evils pursuing our dreams: that amazon woman; that skinny model; that sophisticated eagle—as torn for falling, while loving for leaving, at tears to palm our scriptures—that laughing prayer, at deep communion, our mirrors flailing these golden eyes—at greens his venture, that vex abed his lies, to awaken her arms aback her brains—to die, that Wiccan’s moment, at mothers asking permission.  It comes with chimes, this social attraction, while invested in dying—that beauty wreckage, our addict ambitions, this literature as moving occipital lobes—to cherish those arms, that reach, dreaming, our seconds to innuendos—as more by life, to return those thoughts, while tugged at several valleys: that outer overseer; those wafting tulips; this obsession he vanished.  [I must return, as never he left, but bodies to art, our pure expressions]: that tiny infant, as full perspective, our dreams sacrificed; indeed, to existence, our riveting experiences, to peer at legality, screaming: that angel softness; those tender elements; our rifts settled in copulation; as died our fears, invested with prowess, to come to deaths pleading her resurrection.           

Birds Set Free: Our Misfits

I’m island cadence, graphic glass, as caged melting into seizures—this atonic life, or focal our points, bleeding into absence; to court his wife, as needing secrets, to forfeit his wife—this melded grooming, as infused by ecstasies, to vanish mid-winds those wings—as broken fevers, to escape psychs, as returning for running to blank that haven: as for terrors, a cigar to liquor, our feud so trivial, our grounds so by rules—to abuse love, to crumble love, to misuse love.  I’m skipping feathers, as screaming evils, at treasures to erase our faces: as fretted wickedness, or slathered lusts, our fluids carried through odors—to vex eternal, this brief of penchants, our lawyers at love with clients—to curse minds, as grounded, blotched, at horrors to avoid those psychs—if but by deaths, as rewinding ecstasy, this foot his stool as shattered by agonies.  I died to love, peering at sheer treachery, to ignore for pelvises clutch as reminded that horror—where countries fail, at, too, but enchanted, while Love desires a young monster: that fevered fool, as filled with confidence, as never to rehearse such treason—that silent soul, while furled a nightmare, a bit compliant as Daffy Duck—that bruised thought, escaping proclivities, at wars to believe in thoughts—while never a glance, as brushed, plus, washed, singing by peaches. I seek alive, to die by essence, where women tug for pulling begging resurrection—that frantic kiss, as believing for perished, in something akin to a negligent God; as never we live, as never with cry, our hardened souls adorned in skeleton sensations—that beige wind, those foreign signs, this woman so deep his guts—as never for reach, or ever for dying, as screaming to annihilate symbolic logos: this film on repeat, this woman dancing, our eyes breaking for tortures.  I loved for deaths, to mate for rivers, as brooks bared witness—to laugh his souls, while broken a daughter, to come to grips wooing a Spanish fly: our Ethiopians, seeping for loving, this invariable leviathan—that bag by Coach, that Chanel womb, our ears bleeding this buzzing annihilation…as existential, slamming walls, to fall for crying, laughing insanely.  I ached his wife, prior to that connection, running with this prophetic inebriation—as came to tears, to want that voice, while distant those lungs—this selfish man, to die this psych, at tears our African queens—to helpless this model, those burgundy guts, at feathers to flee this green-eyed diary—that daughter as never for living, this broken island, where father is damn near dead—that Caesar coo, that King assassination, our Malcolm to souls as realizing life—those beautiful whites, that cryptic Danish, that father at tears to suffer this liquor—in turn to perish, as living this hell, at tortures to break those casts—where mother screams, at aunt’s brains, our cousin at bit to undergrowths—as floored through Bill, to know for secrets, our mothers cuffed for flying—this inscrutable nightmare, at treasure’s treacheries, to evoke for evolving this evolution.  I remote a grain, looking for intoxicated, at fury those at disgust—where life is perfect, our noses pointing, while our closets are hectic with filth—to love forever, as faithful as dying, to pull Naïve while bones are grumbling—this filthy diamond, as raging his quarters, to deceive by behalves this love for flying; as never we live, at furies with brains, while chained to redemption; this furious savage, as captured for laughing, while to die rebuilding Xanadu: that jasmine castle, our twins to music, this life to scrapes at bruises—where Love remembers, this kind soul, at terrors to lose that affection—but never that lie, as swimming at clouds, to remember that kind gesture—where mother sought father, peering at a son’s eyes, to transfer an ill-gotten temperament: that screaming leather, those tracking Nikes, this abandoned woman as far too gorgeous—to die for centuries, as lives confusion, this wealth as un-wealthy self-imageries.       

Our Cursed, Benevolent Breath

Children are smitten, where adults passion panic, as graphic insanities—to courage penmanship, ironic a curse, to reckon surpass thoughts—that inner General, that lieutenant’s flag, this scarf our neighbor’s blood—to seize fear, as internal castles, our fortresses crumbling.  I’m jaguar eyes, or butterfly wings, a ferret on her deathbed—where language blurs, while gripping Light, our pledges to return; those morbid whispers, as awakened by chants, something foreign his skin: that bloody towel; that inner grasshopper; that cygnet at distresses—herewith, our bones rattling; our cages to, Alleluia; this controversy concerning fires—that beige eyelid; that flaming red mane; this box of tea-powder—as powered his brains, this a.m. thump, that mahogany air-flight—where random his essence, those existential beauties, this meta-sky river—as afloat his thoughts, to desire flesh, as inverted a psychotic loner; therewith, this inner daughter, to pass but secrets, our legacies uprooted by spines: those wine-shaped eyes, [that potential for dying], this miracle by DEVOTIONS—or more our soul’s reservoir, at fires that claim, as divested speaking to itself; this mirror crying, our Oms at play, this self in persons bleeding its rivalries—as cultured a fool, or less a monster, this wrangling with leviathan—a zebra’s calmness, a jackal’s wits, this fever as settled into dementias—those inner blue symbols, that bluebird’s agility, that rhino’s anger—where said a curse, has embedded life, this inverted miracle—where nomads explore, this keen terrain, seated alone at whispers this bush: our SPORADIC attractions, our fluttering feathers, as rare as golden catfish—while touched at scars, our dragon-breath waters, that exiled sand-river: this spidery feeling, as never to fruition, while proud to utter, I thank you: that outer landscape, that indelible spirit, this eraser buffing frantically—as outwitted dearly, those lava-eyes, our Tibetan cries—insomuch, to panic, or curse existence, our birthdates a symbol of dying.  I laugh to heal it, this riveting fraction, our apostolic nightmares—that warrior of sights, to pause elation, immersed by Catherine—that Siena dream, that shoebill’s gaze, that tenderness so arid with courage—if but to perish, as lives our Minds, our elephants kicking at earth: that casual pain, to water his eyes, that immortal connection—while dueling for days, our action tusks, reading E. E. Cummings—that miracle paradise, as embedded in souls, this European ankh; to come with wails, these tales of love, where never but a glance: (this blue whale, that inner Kalahari, those leopard eyes, that cheetah’s image); indeed, our cosmic frustration, our tiger stone woes, this saber’s tooth—as aflame a curse, blessed at bleeding, our compassionate refusals—or more abrupt, as never a thought, to seat our feelings with partialities.           

Slow Paced: Linen Emblems

I’m terrified, to witness afflicted purity, while tugged to embrace status quo: this fury as driven, that achy brook, our meadows flickering shadows; this sky aflame, as broken at terrors, to die a falcon’s energies: this torrid current, as pure undergrowth, at lights flying into ski-cliffs: those brown khakis, that beige jacket, those flats soot’d by Africa.  I felt imagery, as afire an ante, peering at Christ’s eyes; where hell is fever, so groomed a nightmare, a man outranking justice: that casual split, as rift at several parts, our arithmetic speaking multiple languages; as if to flee, this rounded survival, those Asian yogis—while torn at music, or caged at Quinton, to arrive pardoned for homicides: this frequent exaggeration, as seizing our days, flayed for writhing but insanity: that mirthy tonation; those burgundy dreams; our mire as clear as infants—this place at clearance, that inculcated sale, our essence bleeding our introductions: by souls to love, as never this rite, to infuse afflicted with chaos: herewith, are gremlins, spewing green slime, at once to insist on pure affinities.  I could for love, as destroying love, where unsaid love lurks a kilometer afar: our turquoise rhinestones; our inner poltergeists; this house as haunted by holiness; where elks perish, fleeing into kingdoms, our arrows bowing our cupids; as tested immortals, this flurry of lipstick, while grinding teeth-spaces: those morbid bumps; that facial acne; this woman’s skin but flesh—to arrive as willingness, this section of rivalries, where two embark upon a rapacious undertow; while set to live, as nothing to perish, our scarves bleeding resurrections.       

Midevening

I silenced nightfall, as hectic a phantom, to appear by chest-caves—this slave of spirits, as parted our lives, where currents seep into fireballs: that person seething; that cauldron cold; our attraction an instance prior to kef—this fleeting essence, embedded in terrors, as faced with a segment of selfhood: those orange lights, as fuming indecision, our discernment as haywire—this flicker of dice, our prophecy lingering, this beige moon—adrift black-magic, for life was dark, at tremors to witness emerging lights—those achy fretters, this steep frustration, as flustered revolving this prison-vestibule—those warm waters, that immergence of saintliness, to arrive at faces with darkness—this killing sensation, as driven by souls, to afloat through serious turmoil: that outer lose; this inner growth; our cymbals clanging as chimes.  I could to chase, by losing investments, where it feels good to love: that crazy thought, as steep with scars, this venture acclaimed as casinos—that game at woods; this sylvan mentality; our frightful insanities; where Love was shallow, as bold in confidence, to speak through mere presence—this inner thought, of touching flesh, as two die where another breeds—these torn emotions, that fatal cry, our tears bathing our features—that psychotic self, as standing at attention, to dwindle afar that tragic kiss; nevertheless, or notwithstanding, this vague but relevant difference—as such to live, addicted to attributes, our purpose to decorating Adonai: those soft limbs; that mahogany flesh; those eyes too precious for this world—as dying insanity, filled as oozing, this ante screaming for longevity—to hold attention, unless nuance fades, while crazed a longing soul.  I saw for Passion, aflame our ashes, where said mystic danced through snow-fire—this current raging, as stemming from alliance, to ask about sacrifices—those jasper wounds, that purple bruise, this flailing of categories—that fatal imperative, this stoic at love, our unfeeling parachutes; to rescue deaths, while feeding horses, at one with nonchalance. 

Plush With Photographs

I see nuns, priests, and electric currents—this thin thunder, at wonders our arcs, while celebrated in sulfur; this casual scream, as heard through kilometers, as adjusted and returned.  I see psychs, situated in personalities, a tale too human to adjust: this miracle island, embedded in psyches, to flush through grainy rivers: that African woman, plush with Europe, admiring our Spanish natives.  I see swans, pardoned for faux pas(s), laughing as icecream melds with sand: that inverted texture, our mothers breathing, our souls adorned in leather jackets.  I’ve cried life, reading through emotions, admonished by this poet’s curse: our casual drugs; our milky liquors; our days wrestling through sobriety: to claim existence, ten meters into sadness, at elation that a child was born: our Mercedes-membranes; our Gucci intellects; our happiness as truths—where father smiles, sipping teas, engrossed in sheer proximity: those light grays, as formed in classes, where a daughter ponders poverty: that sudden joy, as clashing with shame, where essence bleeds politics—wherewith, our humanitarians, as lives, Maya, this cyan-red portrait; as dreamt forever, that perfect frontal-pose, our eyes agaze’d by structures: those Prada hips; that Dior gaze; those eclectic gestures—as ‘gurgitating acrobatics, if but this trapeze, our whiffs by Chanel.  I see mystics, this secret unfolding, our third-eyes bombarded by visions: those royal garbs, our saints—that terrible glory;—if but to confess, this Burberry craving, this woman, that belly, that dance.   (I’m seeing lightning, as casual affection, this elderly soul, that artsy Trench coat); as perfect perception, grounded in arrogance, this feeling that life has created; thereto, I wipe a tear, peering at Rolex eyes: this soul screaming, as perfected our dungeons, immersed in volunteer services; that hectic star-sky, as pure revelation, our addicts feeling abandoned: adrift this portal, a daughter with ties—rejuvenation spotted in an Armani vest: that beige desert; those sky-deers; this celebration of Santa Clause.  I’m catching vibes, fiddling through valley-attics, leering at faces; as all alone, these foreign features, agaze’d by a Valentino model: those piercing eyes; mane at attention; this deliberate blouse—to curve his thoughts, this act of trust, while vying for domination: if but to live, as but to perish, if but to fly—that cold atmosphere, so warm that moment, seeping into penchant cries.   I see miracles, our Neutrogena magic, seated at plummeted highs: that shift by necks; those casual denims; this genetic abrasion—where mother laughs, as blessed a scar, a bit too hebetated to fail his mission: our Fendi editors; our California dreams; our freedoms cursing our choices—where beauty entangles, as often a gift, our souls tugged in multiple directions; hereto, we die, as, hereto, we live, our parents knitting our afterworld: that diary of green deaths; those high cheek bones; those proportionate thighs.  I’m seeing women, this field of personalities, our Magi with canes—that rattler’s brains, as splayed asunder, this morphing leviathan: as death would vanish, as lives our photos, our secret societies [where ritual becomes law, our Cadillac entrances, our knit-wit ideals—to feel as children, relived in currents, at love this incredible catastrophe; hitherto, this constructive grin, while steeped in dying, where Love feels some sort of energy.  {I saw images, these Aldo models, as gorgeous those cries. I thought that name, that fatal obsession, gnawing upon conscious gates: our McCartney ambitions; our slithering through ethics; this sudden retreat}: by waves a curse, as blessed an entity, those wine-flushed-eyes].           

Use Your Words: Swanship

By travesty, invested by zeal, our cryptic dolor—as swans paddle, flipping by chaos, a tear closed inside; by miracle cadence, as glanced to flying, our opus humor: those burgundy rivers; that red tide by justice; this qualified losing—to reach equations, spaced by energies, as tragic impulses: our inner grandparents; this classic calamity; our judges smiling through disdain: this inner psych; that edgy professor; our lawyers a tale by Grecian gods: to love our swan, as dead a soldier, our prizes convoluted: those falcon eyes; our eagle’s wings; this griffin’s soul; as magic sewn, awaiting its consequence, while rabid with sorrows: our mental nibs; those fibbing gestures; our laughter knitted in travesties: to ignore those traits, while affronted by said traits, as never at full realization; as clashes souls, our boulders downhill, our pushing for gravity—this return to chaos, our cycles feigning arrivals, our metaphysicians feigning closure—this opened wound, dripping insanity, our risky behaviors; as unsealed his soul, our freedoms ebbing, this pear as symbolic love; where mother laughs, as sudden a tear, to fall clutching her guts: our outer panic, this eclectic high, gnawing at pink rum.  I ache our minds, tormented by reason, at communion with Logos; this phantom bleeding, as presumed clearance, our flutes with dates: that granny riven; our vase at resistance; our sweat as aqua-puce—that deep resilience, as formed in cinemas, this harp soothing that release; hereto, this sifting stream, while melding images, while feeding seabirds: our luxury pains, afflicted by kindness, our addictive ancestors—that man by mirrors, that daughter by literature, this planning as our perfect weddings—if but to senses, this web as livid, our wires straddling phantoms: this hectic heartcave, as terrorized by thoughts, by occasion a candid smile—as if to lights, at life enjoyed, our woes as if dissipating—this cruel adventure, our foreign leaguers, our journals by horrific trespass: as nightmare music, our friends to sensory, this leaflet miraculous insights—as written proverbs, to sort through turmoil, while deep a star for living life.  Ours are rumors; this picture in time; our distance seated by abrasions—our logic partial; our methods by orthodoxy; our surreal wildfire: that type as firebrand, this undergrowth of yearning, our winters to internal shadows; that trestle of harmonies, as our disguises tattle, that immergence of blue-waves—where rhapsody appears, this flux in membranes, a tear concerned by transmitters—to give but truths, this welkin sensation, as cries this twofold dragon—as spaced in pains, while cemented in joys, a tear detached from that inner person [as mothers die, our imperfect firewood, our monetary paradises: this opus whetstone, this nonplus sensation, this inrush of fantasts agility—if but to sing, as sang our dimensions, flickering through twilight dreams]: to garner our futures, this event through reason, at sudden departure our innocence: this misplaced element, at societal crucifixions, our aria bleeding nostalgia: that permanent feeling, as lost to impermanence, this elaborate cry for normalities: our rapture; our Flowing Light; this portal through life as sheer confusion: our existential; our inner scruples; this rapture as sanctified vexation—to come to silence, as leading through behaviors, our music at comforts with tacit explanations; to have by cadence, this touch of art, while addicted to certain elations: that casual breath, as taken in jest, as laudable but unaffected: this tithing in spirits; that inner sacrifice; this meal of orange breads—as emphatic sparkles, our fathers to seeking, our mothers to conquering—as exposed fatigues, or cautious cauldrons, while distresses are often pardoned—this ace of diamonds, as aloof to causalities, this knoll as an oversight: those prism phantoms, to ravel our brains, seated in fitful vibrations [to love our swan, or dying to love, while situated to teach a nation: this space reaching, where levity becomes treacherous, while nettled through chaotic concerns: this wealth gripping; this swan actualizing; our brains upwelling by potentiality—to adore such features, as lives an inner penguin, this trekking through colonies—that bold cry, as etiquette dreams, where soulquakes become operas].  {I’m pensive a scream, flooded by harpoons, at gravity our ballad—this musicality, our barefaced orb, this silence of souls; as dies infinity, our bleeding songbird, this fulgent travesty—to use but words, as cutting through steel, such splendor by crimson tears: that observant mystic, those observant psychs, this sudden realization of new energies: that granny vigil; that father at battles; this thing where words perform as one’s sanity: to show for courses; to denote clarity; or connote a subtle death—as born crying, or silent by returns, where onlookers cherish our eastern star: those saintly eyes, as lives those brains, that feisty attitude—to snap with patience, while teaching survival, our mothers perfect at seizing our souls: our dreamlike discernments; our gemstone fireballs; this ember trickling koans; to arrive at essence, this love as brimming, our seismic revelation}.  Our reach is mental, distorted through time, this tragic warfare; as man affronts life, where life retaliates, this feral nectar—as digested in turmoil, while seated at demonic corners, as to infuse by life this clutching of guts: those cagey whispers, that silent echo, this thunderous kernel—as stresses our brooks, our husbands to liquor, our wives to reputations—where earth is flat, while thoughts are rounded, herewith, our unsung selfhood; as doing wrong, but a decade at tortures, this fission of sublime tenets: that tempest of souls, at wonders this land, but imperfect essence perfecting certain crafts: to love evermore, as dying forevermore, to arise wistful through pyrrhic victories.  

Sensitive Energies

I wonder can you take this from me.

I’m sick that way…

…I see Givenchy, this pitch black cat, our criminal cries [as aloof to peace, while measured by illnesses, at tours laughing with Sullenness] this piano sunken, our rites abusive, this color formed in meekness [that terror flying, our eyes watering, this inscrutable agony]. I see glory, our reveling horrors, to know she would by Satan’s willingness [our rebellious seconds, comforted by crocodiles, at realists treacheries]…whereto, such silent volume, such sketchy analyses, our mental leather trekking aside Berluti’s—this frivolous chase, as compels our brains, to want for clearance—this swimming disaster; those pagan centuries, this nature by warfare—as died our angst, to arise our anxieties, to touch by chance this farce—those warming palms, that magnificent illusion, this tugging at sorrow—to eradicate segments, as lies our alligators, our marshy swamps to brilliance: this fusion of rain, this Boss briefcase, our papers incriminating by contradiction—as livid an arc, the slowness of times, this finding for capture—our anklet sores, gripping for pulling deaths, while aflame our sky-winters: those sable leaves, once so fervently green, as falling our deciduous hours: this puffing of cloves, to erase that voice, our lungs clattering soundlessly: this lure through passions, to know by endless winds, our northern current has perished; [this achy nuance, as appalled to breathe, staring by a pond’s reflection] this beige Terrier, our mimics for closure, our petting our palms to miseries [as loved our hearts, this bag of popcorn, this fury by pigeons] that cyan necklace, as chased his brain, to witness adornment by simplicity [our cryptic frequency, as to outlive existence, to find for faces a million images [those inner portraits, as acclaimed through jests, to sit painted in delirium].

I wonder can you take this from me.

I’m sick that way…

…it was us at wars, this picture bleeding, as never that caption [our music but thoughts, to come by fevers, as introduced to our mirror’s reflection] this wealth as purity, this purity as novelties, those novelties as exploration [to ponder sensations, at treasure’s cleats through terror, our souls reeking of Cocktails: this foreign page, as inked in unbelief, to season our autumn thoughts: our blue jazz; our Red Sea trauma; this foolish feeling seeking its healings] as cultured disappointment, to need that feeling, as dreaming those Spanish fireworks; as livid a curse, but something soothing, such instrumentals our back-current: that provocation, as subtle a storm, to pull trough lights, our stomachs growling curiosity—as splendid by deaths, as attracted to sensations, by cult that satin touch [if but to lose, as abused for love, this feeling adrift by souls—to heal by airbeams, to die as resurrected, to voice by lance, Eternity.        

I wonder can you take this from me.

I’m sick that way….

Rainbows Bleeding Color

I failed fatherhood: I’ve failed humanity: I cry without tears; and death was real, this splendid absence, leering through eyes by vacuums: that sheer insanity, our constipation, as attempting to feel our emotion—to bring it forward, this cyst to brains, our tragic epilepsies: that riveted culture, attempting to vitiate depression, at terrors this steep admiration: to sense so closely, as forced to behave, where unsaid love administers a rift.     I cry purple: I die intrusions: I want for romance a second into a feeling: this horrid shadow, as blackness to lights, to film by hearts or cryptic silence: this musical madness, as spontaneity, while focused your image—this space to perish, this land as blighted, our souls as revolving those possibilities: if torn asunder, this delicate rose, our petals spelling out c.a.t.a.s.t.r.o.p.h.e: as bubbling acidic(s), this inch into lovelocks, to admire for cadence this distant rock: instead, I confess, this awkward hour, where love erases those misconceptions—this valid animosity, those shivering tulips, to reach out by kissing unsaid monster; at inner tyranny, this eclectic rainstorm, to love while found to fall apart.     I feel dejected; this wretched merry-for- rounds, while suppressing this mutual fault-by-findings: that snake by inheritance; this dragon by clearance; as said for perfect while bleeding deathly our sentiments—that casual off-birth, this psych flying, our grandparents feeling beyond statutes—that bold clearance, as seeping by realizations, to come to grips this reoccurring finish-line: that gray fraction, as opposed to seeing, where hearts thump that sudden revelation—if sung to seek, or seeking as sung, this morbid, terrible investigation—to ask for sincerity, as rendered this monsoon, to fall to carpet gripping at air-beams—as wooden elation, our waxed infinities, while cleaving to this intricate act of repentance—as mother’s proud, forsaking our scissor(y) sacrifice, while seeping into needing forgiveness.     We could to die, at love that hour, to resist unto deaths as never returning: this constant butterfly; this regressive caterpillar; this eyeless ladybug—where mothers perish, as fathers are oblivious, to have his thoughts at facial confrontation: that beer with wine; out pork-rhine sensations; this thought as perfect where behavior appears cordial; as feelings soar, to imbue our hearts, to curse with time our retrievals; as, therewith, this deadly incantation, afloat as drilled into repressive states: that casual torment; such sincere withdrawal; to scratch by sights of blood while screaming bloody sensations: our mind-fields; our soul-deaths; this miracle as aloof to proprieties: our deadly sorrows, to want for clearance, plummeted by extra-terrestrials—that gray vexing, as seeking its face, to come by grips tripping into melancholia: that beige remembrance; that tyrannical sensation; our days to crimes as uncommitted—where essence moans, as groaning in essence, to fly with negligence.     [I’m dazed a storm, fumbling through rights and wrongs, at clearance to perish—this finicky layer, where terror takes precedence, while one at horrors becomes blind to actions; this elfin portrait, as gremlins frantic, to curse with time our endless mirrors—this chaotic promise, as racing through shadows, to pull but achy veins from faces: to give such torture, while privileged to winds, as such to ignore this plaguing tumor.     I could to live, as divested of tranquility, while unsaid aircraft pillages our dungeons—this horror of times, where sanity drifts, at clearance to speak in silent depressions: this inner milking, as silk to swords, to pillage one’s guts: this fantastic lobe, bombarded by tentacles, our minds becoming this adverse cosmos—to die such kef, inverted but fleeing, this wave of images destroying mind-portals].      

I Die At Brains

I’m alive a curse, filtered through chaos, at love with terror—this remote island, as pictured in souls, at variance to clear this fatal infraction: those beige limbs, that moving womb, this portrait two to cries as infinity—where mother perishes, as laughing maniacally, where father slams his gavel: if but to step-fathers, to erase a father’s soul, our generation to wholeness—this pregnant feeling, as killing our grandfathers, to know for daughters this frigid escapism; where mother vanishes, as lost in traffic, to induce spiritual warfare: our captured advice, as webbed with clearance, this portal as evaporating: our theoretical(s); our exponentials; this driven killer proclaiming pragmatism—if but to die, as crying her womb, to invest in characteristics—where harm is good, this analytical, to come to digestion afar this psych: our cryptic powers, to alarm a phallus, while reaching for a foreign flame: this livid music, at accordions with strife, our memories at clearance to cherish father.  It could to deaths, or potent climaxes, our terrors aching as omens: this inner mother, that grand-for-parents, our grandmas fleeing for recognition: if but to cherish, this Asian dove, while Africa wanes insanity—that flippant advance, as cagey a sore, to emote such tyranny.  We flourish passions, this ironic advice, to come to closures drunk with elation: that fabulous hailstorm; our moments at thoughts; this realization of those things that never live: if but to cadence, alive this feeling, to test while fraught with disgusts; this essence to self, our flickering of notions, while wanting for essence this running adventure: that far to closure cry, this welkin eye-horror, our guilt at souls for powers: if torn asunder, at tremendous empathy, where said silence becomes this infringement.  We should to live, this wife with kids, as exploring this sanctimonious communion—where hell is fire, as sprinkled with waters, to imagine this song would sing: our edgy attractions, this voice in Africa, where three men claim fatherhood; but courage fails, as romance dwindles, this sudden fury reviving essence—that angry man, to subdue his tendencies, or channel rage into sexual dalliances—; that far-to-dream, as whetstone-excursions, to float through brains gaining control…indeed, to fractions, this love for fools, while he never sung so valiantly: those typical tea-wives—those yearning surges—as generating this invariable energy—as love would perish, this advice of villains, to want for psychotic raptures—if but to scream, this game of gin, while slammed in mind against a Malibu cliff.  I could to love, where aches are clearance, as more this fatal sacrifice—as wanting excitement, but never to leave, if but this vulture was with clearance.  {I see us dying, as living immortally, fleeing into hectic atmospheres.  I see us loving, while framed in chaos, at two becoming friends; this lavish life-crane, our casual deaths, this anchor supporting our advances; to love at treasures, to die at measures, to come to popping our necks—this fatal spin, to culture our lives, while so close to perish another’s touch: this music screaming, our lyrics internal, this heart as flooded with resonance—that indifferent cry, as lying to mirrors, at attics spinning our rages—this mystic infringement, that cliff so close, our leaping into sanity; as lives our torches, this field of dragons, this deep spontaneity—where wombs mourn, as needing closure, to crave with life this warrior’s infusion—that caged excitement, as privileged our faces, running for dying this deep resentment: that achy clam, this mortal lobster, out Cesar salads: if but to live, akin to flying, our existential carnival; where mothers flee, as aborted this life, to come to terms this child at birth}…in tears to exist, at fears to advance, in mourning to erupt that fatal leap…where cries are painted, this scream within wailing, to come to lights a century in age.    

We Crave Existence, Aflame Our Vertical Ladder

I look’d at cloves, this bundle of ashes, as metaphorical our reigns: while seeking deaths, as proclaimed in violence, our psychical misunderstandings. I claim existence, while cleaving to irony, to feel for vexes our paradox—or misinformation, caged in torments, to find for joys a bit sentimental: that terrible silence, as misdirected anger, where engines flee through panic—that trenchant kindness, as kissed our fury, to want for this invariable youth; as tears for options, while refuting feelings, where one dies cleaving to mere gestures. I felt presence, this lethal agent, as digging for dying in glory—those treasured entities, this florid diamond, our marriage with suspicious clauses: if but to purity, this infant child, our baby-breath-begonias.     It could to classes, as reading an article, where effervescence seeps into dimensions: this rabid mystic, as confined in essence, to have for violence this kef of fools—while torture murders, this vicious infusion, to want by desire this amazing fortress: that itching glory, as cultured to excel, where father sips while peering into justice: our cranky infants, this piece by puzzles, this grown woman performing by emotions—or sore this sight, this childish man, to redeem cultures while praising in private. It comes to deaths, affected by matrix, to feel as permanent this fleeting elation: that burgundy kiss; those sky-terror palladiums; this voice as walking while informing through particles—those immortal wiles, as informative trails, to come to grips clenching fire: our immortal Asians, as akin to Africans, fleeing for thrusting through myriad woe-fare: if but to live, our European allies, this presence as voiced with suspicion—our terrible logic, so effused with traumas, this lady watching as reminded of his folly; at steeds to cherish, flipping for vapid at weather, to course with chimes allergic to pure enchantment.     We live at graces, this enjoyable converse, to want for more while peering at infants; to have that claim, aflame a kiln, where a young girl points at pictures: that famous father, that luxury of tyrants, this breaking factor as living through mother—if but to live, while afoul a storm, to come to panic collapsing in Spanish; or lights to gods, while infused a tornado, to whoosh through closed enclaves; to panic justice, our father’s gavel, our cartilage chipping at turnpikes—if but to vanish, afraid to sing, while forced to symphony an arena: that edgy light; this fire by essence; our music as lyrical elation; to mourn insanity, while purging insanity, to come to features disputing our sanity—this wealth as blood, this filth as bleeding, to invert reality while afloat with angels; that serious penchant, those wistful inventions, that cry in brains losing its texture. I’ve craved silence, as too vocal to retreat, where angst has managed its precedence: this cordial attitude, those remarkable spurts, as justice to self disregarding exponentials; indeed, to perish, at love for failure, while at rumination blinking into chaos.                 

Mirrors: (Our Terrific Horrors)

We travel lights; cleat’d in dissatisfaction, braided in turmoil: such Asian fury, reveling color, at torments to confess—this wicked passion, as laughing with shame, that grackle as peering at motion: such casual misfits; such annual purging; with angst suggesting longevity—that rabid cry, as strobe’s pain, this hour to deaths our unbelief.     It spoke silence, as to figure symbols, while adjusted to brilliance: this lightfast resilience, as striking through nerves, while feeling unattractive…this blatant error, where crime becomes petals, while petals become misery…to chime with fire, as deathly distraught, at cadence flushing pills; to repurchase life, while threaded in chaos, where Naïve appears as fickle—or failing by arts, this immortal tear, deep by trance staring at this celebrity.     It shall to pass, this reality, abrasive, where a mystic ruined ambition: that cry to sights; that liquid presence; or such by fire to flush but once: at treasures, Love…such wincing betrayal…such profound anguish—to render war, occasioned to perish, at castles laughing by guillotine: that cauldron bumbling; that catapult flickering; this aqua-blue flame; hereto, this gentle attraction, as years bundle injustice, where feelings became exploited—if but to love, where love was failing, this curious adventure becoming our blackdamp; hitherto, this brave conveyance, sectioned for failing, while steeped in Colossians—as by us, for us, while through us; this vicious lantern, peering at such beauty, our Asians fraught by creativity: this inner cygnet, as infused chaos, while too proud by collapses.     We’ve explained nothing     racing for crawling     appearing in visions: this soft enchant, as appalled emotion, agaze’d by Aiko: that fabulous journey, as tugged asunder, where reality dictates our illusions: that fine texture, where dreams are shattered, to alight a brilliant dragon: as leviathan furies, where obsession curries, this portal in seconds but unaware: that tragic lose; those severed wings, that cursed awning—where Love has died, while love lives to flourish, where blue-violets purge our inner wells—this perfect aura, pigeon’d as mourning converse, while abandoned to survival tactics—if but distraction, or ablaze’d as firebrand, to whisper, I need us: as furious savages, this stranger our beds, at sacrifices to avoid self-depreciation—as madness blossoms, this vile instinct, to curse by volumes extinguishing our Albatross: that edgy insight, those foreign feelings, this want for newness to remain insatiable.     We come to tyranny, afflux our Beyoncè’s, where one engulfed by beauty can remain so loyal: this calls to freedom, our daughters at pyramids, those staircases afloat this mental sanctum—as, thitherto, this hankering for recruitments, if but those silent webs, to have for adventure searching for exists—as needed deeply, that wispy performance, if but to contain this whisky elation: those tyrannical hats, those gowns with splits, this meth for dying as inwards scream; as, too, this silent presence, while gnawing our lips, as, moreover, our souls are calculating endeavors—that sultry resentment, for performance refuses to die, while two outgrow embedded footlights.     It lives our brains, this need for acceptance, to come to life this flower but moments: our deciduous minefields; this inner acme; this reflex courting for calling through dreams: that welkin attraction, as furious by passion, to come to battle fleeing our captures: such marvelous tyranny, necked in blood-suckling, our claws tearing through flesh—as beauty’s beast, this gray monster, if but for living pulled by elation: that cultic person, so gorgeous a scream, to pass through passions, at panic our dementia…indeed…to disguise by dragon-swords…at terrible friction to gaze upon glory: such femininity, fraught with ruthless conflictions, as sewn into synaptic membranes: this featured tragedy, as colliding with delusions, this person so perfect they fail to consume: if but that moment, as seconds to perish, at terrors to exhaust this fleeing attraction; where angst attracts, while love is mortal, to die fleeing ontic mirrors.            

Whetstone Passions

I sensed melancholia, as potential to cringe, at variance to display credence—this mystical magic, as acclaimed our souls, by cultures with integrated habits; this welkin force, as coursed through cries, such by deaths screaming our sentence—this edgy dungeon, our sweat to music, seated at luxurious restaurants: those four inch steaks, our hankering for fries, this platter or octopus—seeping into sun-bliss, those dolor eyes, sprinkled by hazel trimmings—such gentle banter, leading where devils cry, this nine month excursion. I told Jesus, this second’s promise, while becoming sheer chivalry—if but to relate, as skated our screams, infused for dying awake to pangs: those tender seeping(s), as tender welts, our claws at passions seldom received: to purchase behavior, as sutured woes, our mammon but human reactions. It could to live, this glorious heartsore, as appeased through atypical treacheries—to gun his life, approached this grim-reaper, our hoods tugged down revealing our skeletons: those dungeon eyes, as engulfing timidity, at entrance that lock as keys are flung to seas: if but to taste, as but to enter, while aloof to this feeling called, love—we’d die evermore, while too tired to maintain, this cavalier momentum—as never so casual, this battle upon high grounds, where war is sweeter than complaisance. I sensed sorrow, as born to punish, where said sorrow derives from misconceptions: this sipping of clarities; this insidious Poseidon; our childhood Medusas—those rabid snakes, that cagey approach, this lyric ringing at 3a.m.; at serotonin his nature, at motivation his zeal, at terrible highs those thoughts of love—where art is feeling, while emotion is wingspan, this zest for increasing life’s value—if but to perish, at love this ideal, where philosophers struggle: those gracious arcs; those rancorous eyes; that killing to destroy an unstable atmosphere; as torn sideways, infused by crookedness, to kiss for falling into mirages—that infant crying; that terrorized vestibule; this walking while reading graffiti—as said for nothing, where mother would ache, this failure to realize those joys are her essence; indeed, for tortures, while asked to sin, but a moment in thought where she never requested—this pleat in fools, as lives our treasures, if but to cherish what others take for granted: those lavish scars; that silken complexion; this remaining as humans are divine: our tender tragedy; our humanistic(s); our reason assailing epistemologies—if but to gather, at picnic dreams, peering at Buddhists: that frantic argument; those terrible windows; this peace afforded one that submits: if but to silence, where snails spew wisdom, as our rabbit instincts spell disaster: this fatal secret, as a cygnet's friend, while all for Satan our inner compass; to love for mercy, as kindled a storm, as remembered as eyes spring shores—those blue feelings, as inched into our dynamic, to curse with voice this immortal shame. I love for love, this love for winning, while equipped fairly to match a Wiccans wits: those tremendous shoots, as chimneys vanish, this poet to enter a theologian’s composure. I’ve said little, for needing perfection, this curse forced into existence—as dying often, while losing humanity, to reach for falling into jealousies: that immortal hour, as flowered our surface, while needing one to believe; this cryptic skull, as pure a skeleton, to immortalize a dying frenzy: this whispering gravity, as pulling for exits, to ruin this cultic endeavor: that excellent tug, while resisting magnets, to cry our hermetic enchantress: that music bleeding; our tears clawing; this method in self as far to escapish—where it would be glory, to have but essence, if two would fly unencumbered: this wincing glory; this pure seduction; our selves bleeding flame—where honors are prevalent; as stars are words; where culinary becomes affections—this space in hearts, to feel such souls, as to realize we rarely share: if but to passions, as laughs our inhibitions, seething for cringing—this forum love, as adored a scar, to cleave for life as never infractions: that mutual cadence, to sense this typical alliance, while remaining atypical.       

Never Forget Blossoms

I imagine forums     this drapery fulcrum     our brains but stems—as caged by sincerity, or carved from integrity, our war this fractured voyage: if songs to sing, as sang such victory, while arriving at deaths; this spacial mystic, our existential cries, this epistemic closure—as opened to hells, while screaming dungeons, our psychs dispensing whetstones…this vestige unfair     our wisdom but confetti     our realism concerning x; those fabulous tears     as riveted devotion     to perish through birth this flame.     I’m sensing life, our ghetto heritage, those welkin dreams—as pure disturbance, our interior phones, this wrench unbolting sanity—as pensive beauty, to want by possession, as conforming by disdain—this law by desires, that wretched insanity, those polished gestures—to probe essence, while thrusting skies, our cloves with cognac—as terrible concerns, that message ignored, such feral calamity.     I saw contagion, to approach piracy, our tones melodramatic—those trembling knuckles, that wafting scent, that impeccable makeover. I merry at soul, such pure recollection, as never pure enchantment—as forfeiting flaws, or those numbers by calendar, or those books so frantic by darkness.     We listen this gray     wounded for pleasure     accustomed to niceties: those wakeful eyes; that crossing of legs; that flawless conditioner—or rabid cries, through rabid eyes, so sickly psychotic: our Stephen King(s), our horrible sails, this livid caricature—to break palms, as knees rupture, our sanctimonious hypocrisies—where mother churns, as returning to earth, that trek by trails those terrors—to cry by lights, our fasting frenzies, this living by communion—as blinking deaths, enthralled by seduction, at clarities this second upon illusions: that achy membrane; our psychogenic trilogies; this inner undulation—wherewith, are sensors, this maddening vibration, allergic to dangerous minds: that dead soul, as living epistemologies, while wintering for devoting dementias.     I chuckle a laugh, steeped in conditioning, where wings come through traumas—or stern calamity, as self-induced, this Bobby Fisher at wars—those silent games, those violent games, those eyes mimicking insincerity.     I knew for love, this trenchant chaos, as delusion sprouted existence; that sultry veneer, those sullen veils, this nib by fibs becoming reality—to shake by core, this internal sunrise, that door permanent to openness—as grayish memories, or coffee sparks, to flicker a clove your thrust through arcs—this feminine dream, as a lawyers brains, at favor our entrance: that candid goodbye; those shifting realizations; our prose raptures distance—this trefoil bleeding, this tulip kissing, our gardenias as bridesmaids.     If but to have us     I fear to regret us     as something running refused its exits; that terrible addiction     those wrinkles above brows     our karma refuting our mental devotion—as pure happenstance     this misery as liquor     our humors pervading Satan’s kitchen; where essence screams, as deep clarity, our thoughts a layer too intrusive; by which, are storms, our forbidden liaisons, our cornered brains.