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.
