Such
hated passion, as calashes our bones, seated in marrow-seduction: those
aesthetic chills, to feel as if, cemented
in torrid conversation; as drinking beyond sessions, as clever beyond
perspective, while apologetic this woman’s behavior: this instinct dingo, while
appeased to closure, our fantastic Rihanna(s)—where mother chimes, as spitting
arrows, to effect a rapid avalanche.
It’s cold hysteria, or electric attraction, at terms to share a goddess:
this magic fire, this outer overseer, this woman simply helping: if but for
feelings, as killing his instincts, while resolving a trenchant scar—as floored
psychology, peering at violet eyes, a tare to deep enchantment: that perfect derriere,
those fitted breasts, as legs march through insanities. I’ve claimed madness, as becoming
complete, this feeling in measures—where love is purple, as vying for greens, our
lime inventions. I’m told to dance,
while fevered to perish, to give so much that first glance: this melancholia,
as pure cocaine, where love offends our grandparents: this mythic cloth, as
mystic hysteria, to flux through channels as touching that heart; but tales to
souls, I’ll never trespass, as one filled and fraught by demons—for this is
death, this kef of souls, as morbid to control as dying in agonies: this
funeral mind; that old flame; this woman as beautiful as lime passions—if but
to perish, at touch that rebirth, staring at goddess brows—that hectic itch, as
clawing through flesh, this eating of souls captured by sheer enchantment. We lose as winning, this faint agreement,
while family bears witness: that effulgent grin; that miraculous tattoo; this
vague Tao seeping into permanence—where Zen has become, while livid an article,
our psychs holding to our faux pas.
I’m seeing burgundy, scratching as striking fluid, while at wanders this
captive grandparent: our glorious seeds, as bleeds our tortures, where mothers
sit as disenchanted: to wonder for naught,
while perfect a scar, where intentions are blurred in mudslides. I must return, as filled with thoughts,
while perfect a Cross as grieving: this magical love, as never to exist, where
souls panic for clearance: such
kleptomania, as filched from stealers, where said attraction laughs at
violence; but hell to surrendering, as a first thought enchants, while ever at
tortures to employ this art—that terrific blueprint, those delectable apricots,
this face-to-face catastrophe—as whelmed fires, to embark upon injustice, while
at bleeding sacrifices—that edgy penchant; that wistful passion; our yelps as
merely that second—where father rules, as pushing for clarity, to arrive at
this naïve viciousness: that warm clarinet; those cymbals barking; our psychs
embedded in frustration—to summons patience, as more to ponder, this thinking
vessel at wars with proprieties—as chaotic feelings, that inch in time, as
casual as nibbling cheeses—where souls conjure—elaborate guilt, where tomorrow
has become this blade of grass. I
love with passion, while ignoring signals, as one converted to remaining
secluded—as never by risk, but ever by words, where said risk becomes
disenchanted; wherewith, we die, at love without answers, while unsaid Love
pines for a rhythmic discussion—if days are rare, as repeating yesterday, this
feeling as pure delusion; so more by hells, to feel by art, where perfected
talents remain benighted: that casual dance, while one cringes silence, where
Love by acts was performing: at terrors to graves, at slaves to kings, at
treasures to reclusiveness—this measure in minds, to have those thoughts, while
aches drown in ambiguity: that lethal passion, to emerge as gray, while spirits
permit a scent of color: if but to perish, at love for disaster, where one
would dare sacrifice infinity—than grays to colors, as formed in seconds, to
return feeling debated: that infant arc, those adult volts, this illness as
kissing a depleted soul.
