We
pardon elegance, fleeing through traffic, abandoned to realities; that frigid
warmth, as fatal innocence, rented but pleading eternity; where mother pauses,
steeped in epiphanies, granted to see but eyes: this florid casing, our
briefcase sadness, this psych claiming redemption—as pure sanity, graphed in
veins, at florists this garret effect—that languishing moon, that languid minx,
this tear at captures our immortal swan; to cut steal, while fretting cotton,
those acres to determined souls; as never a dream, according to dreams, too
tipsy for coherence. I cry sunlight,
at mores concerning sunshine, while anguish morphs into a tsunami: our a.m.
sessions; our torn pilgrimage; this incredible language: to fester through
orange, as to thought that passion, to exhaust contemplative life: our African
hawks, pleated in Danish castles—those Spanish hummingbirds—at flux to die, as
fevered to cherish, this wealth of ambivalence—as woe to hearts, this planet of
destruction, where unsaid love flourishes throughout divinity—as cagey lusts, this
butterfly symposium—our apricots with peaches. I see a cactus, as to morn through
daisies—this fuchsia galaxy—as touched but minds, to absorb passions, fleeing
through color tones: that wheel of songs, as chased a feeling, while sewn into
insanities: that little bee-eater, that starling mask, this cape garnet
attraction; where father lives, as amused to scars, by anguish affixed to
romances; therewith, a torpedo, this daughter at flux, where said father has
grown complacent: this tawny soul, trekking deep our azure, stirring for
sipping bisque agendas: as blueviolet madness, this inner professor, at tears
to abort our mystic exclusion; but less to sores, as torn to triumph, to know
for certain events: that edgy treadmill; that boisterous internal; this heart
to flutters a level to flying—where love in genuine, as pure our arcade, but
hell to self for omitting this psych; this rabid feeling, as cyan integrity,
where mothers assess our cautious warmth: this dark-red enchantment; that
auburn fusion; this dream in mother’s tyranny. I’m blinking hyena, while scars speak of
abrasions, this swan flicking as firebrick; that trenchant star, too afar to
ponder, while so to closeness our encounters; as too much a scream, those aqua
intensions, fleeing for flitting our water dragon thoughts—this gecko illusion,
as terror a friend, while wing stilts flood our horizon: that tipsy slant, as
captured a gaze, to realize love never inflames—this morbid portrait, as wanting
for seconds—this place in souls our turns of dejection. I love a swan, this glorious fever, while
chasing for falling that blue fox; indeed, to rapture, as courted a scar, while
to flames this immortal alarm: that outer bear, that Smith to lights, our inner
Sophia(s); as flickers gods, our Immortal
as goddesses, petting a tailed deer; to flux with life, this gracious feline,
far too advanced for snaillike romanticism—where this is love, as,
nevertheless, a fancy, peering at tree-creepers. I’m peacock crazy, as to fathom
discontent, where love was never this voiced commitment; wherewith, are
treacheries, to laugh by scars, too at pains while never at bliss—this inner
dwelling, to remember that second, this prayer for penguins: at tortures, Love;
fretting this torrid mongoose; at nature those spider instincts—where woes are
vicious, this one-tracked mind, favored for pure insanity; this lethal
abrasion, wrestling a python, pardoned by an orange robin; as, nevertheless,
that forfeited love, while sick to bones that leopard pregnancy. {“Humans are games, this fiddling organ,
to machine our armory—where feelings are extinct, where passions are extant,
while emotions are favored towards our maestro: that image bleeding, those
souls screaming, our wants trumping proprieties: if but to culture, as more to
pleasures, while vampires roam our psyches: that edgy grain; those mythic
flames; as for wants our souls at such disposal—where love is selfish, this
fleeing through potentials, while craving this torn adventure"}.
