Egyptian Currencies

I feel our hearts, as sparked a canyon, while explosive inclusive(s)—this memory churning, our parents to dungeons, this gnawing our inner cheeks—where love was burnish, as polished an engine, to rev through insanity.  I’ve cried psychics, fumbling metaphysics, as crosses this profound logician—where hearts tumble, as fed a lion, this vampire by shreds its birth—to perish lonely, as met a vixen, to cry by arcs this immortal breeze: our paranoid nights, as one leg left, this kef as becoming our terrors: if but to wombs, as craved that second, where electricity morphs by dragonflies—this breath as inhaled, to ignore such currency, while embraced as Second Coming to love. I die, listening, this person as home, to measure by salt our worth: this cagey frenzy, our psychs to chimneys, those overseers clashing at tyranny—to comb a channel, where green becomes this distress call, as forming this intimate vengeance. [I realize deaths, as this foul creature, to expose our dormant audience; but hell was crying, while souls were dying, and you were made so happy—that frantic address, as kissed in turmoil, fretted by foaming guts—this bone to grizzle, those immortal psychs, this livid cry—to perish bleeding, as felt infinity, where sessions became a passing adventure: that achy charm, our souls to sentence, while treading immortal churches; indeed, with patience, as shared by wombs, this soul at his ninetieth minx; as mother laughs, cringing for crying, while screaming hysterically—this awkward feeling, that more is death, while fleeing for flying attempting to rekindle that first love. It comes with life, this feral adventure, where youth slips into air-binges: that harp wailing; those soothing nerves; this feeling as giving a tare too mitigated; as welkin insanity, while now we must, where variety becomes this thorn-pressed sensation: our lonely love, as but this essence in time, to grip for life as losing life].  I could for souls, as loved a secret, where secrets maintain secrets—as losing edges, while pressed by souls, to come by sudden realization—as more for curses, to remember too many, where such-and-such displayed this-or-that.  I must admit, it matters so little, when love dies gripping our throats—this fatal grin, as morphed a cyclone, to come to deaths laughing. [I churned restless, as morphed this feeling, to awaken gripping his chest—this ferocious heart-terror, that Cambodian heart-murmur, this murmuring through adjusted frequencies—as laughs a swan, this gremlin instinct, our leprechauns seeking for gold—that edgy angst, those terrible thoughts, to come with purpose and shot to New Zeeland: if but those hearts, purchased with kindness, as but a Jewish ritual—to manage success, while steeped in Adonai, where women vie for privilege—as, too, this engine, as drove his mannerisms, while at heart this caged vandal—as Asian love, or morphed Jamaican arms, while seasons distinguish those immortal dreams. I ache by passions, musing our poetess, at flavors to conjure this endemic Shiksa—those torrid eyes, that precise smile, our movies mimicking our sore sensations—as cried his love, to meet with deaths, while our Native Americans marveled. It should be light, our Muslim ethics, as torn by aches stressing infinity—this cagey art, as cautious our brains, to touch while retreating afar—those gloomy meadows, that brook to psychics, this princess morphing through abrasions—to love this mirror, as dying this mirror, to explode as inverted those mirrors; this terror to love, as exclusive a journey, to meet this poet while morphing his brains—that gramps seated, that granny by teas, our grandchildren wreaking havoc: if but to thoughts, our brethren to music, our mothers alive our suggestive souls—where angst is good, that psych is friendly, our fathers repent that rolling stone lifestyle—indeed, a vixen, as cherished those years, while all for pains adoring our fantasies—as living cursed, to find for joys, alive for driven this triumph].