To
more by fire, as terrible intrigue, a day by deodorants—to smell fevers, our
bodies seething, our odors as coals—to die infinity, this cultic flower, our
petals mourning tomorrow: if but to love, as cagey a heart-thrust, as captured,
gleaning our years—this terrific horror, to tremble presence, a bit ashamed
about life—that inner neuroses, this thesis of trauma, our seconds to
possessing affectation—that shaded light, our shadows at wars, our reflections
as inverted chaos—to fathom, or barrel, or seaquakes—this torn existence, where
love was crying, as wounded by death, to come to life this woman’s
harpoon. We ache eternal, bleeding with webs, at terrors through fiction; to
straddle a snail, or converse a horse, or capture our meerkats—this grieving
catastrophe, our parents to prisons, our love but a second that bleeds. We heard for mystics, revving those
tricycles,—morphing into engines—as alive our swans, our ribs crackling, our Cocker-Spaniels
mating with Shih-Tzus—aflame through theories, to formulate blueprints, at
rituals our Knighted Sun; herewith: those burnish eyes, that polished tongue,
such by gifts hard-won—as pressure percolates, this coming about naught, aside this treacherous
communion—The Beauty of Frantic(s), this
pandemonium, our cadence a second for soul-fires—as lost diseases, or permanent
scars, at fevers as reckoned a living death: that terrible woman, as passion’d
his soul, while courted for rivers a place to drown; thereto, our itchy scalps,
our programed responses, this plight too vulnerable for public lights—: to use
liquor, or abuse herbs, while testy a thrumming heartcave: those blue hells,
that jazzy flame, our cadence but an ache permeated by clarities. It hurts to die us while to deaths to save us this terrific catastrophe—as fleeing
blindly, to have lost tremendous acacia, our cypress bleeding tremendous
potential: this frantic kiss, as seated alone, while at wonders our
grandmother’s soul—: if but to live, as alive a tear, speeding through green
lights—that brusque desire, as mere a nuisance, or more this luxury dragging
our swamps—where orphans cry, at war those stillborn sacrifices, The Tortures
of Baptism—headed to marshy lands, puffing his clove, at memorized organs—;
this steep saxophone, our mother’s flute, as to steer such music: those blue
eyes, tinted in deaths, while as moral as Gandhi; hitherto, this febrile ache,
while cautious a tear, alive a scar, as terrorized by an achy turbulence—that
mother those strangers; that father those strangers; that daughter as unique a
consequence; indeed, to love, pitted in fires, dying your feelings.
