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.