I’m
alive a curse, filtered through chaos, at love with terror—this remote island,
as pictured in souls, at variance to clear this fatal infraction: those beige
limbs, that moving womb, this portrait two to cries as infinity—where mother
perishes, as laughing maniacally, where father slams his gavel: if but to step-fathers,
to erase a father’s soul, our generation to wholeness—this pregnant feeling, as
killing our grandfathers, to know for daughters this frigid escapism; where
mother vanishes, as lost in traffic, to induce spiritual warfare: our captured
advice, as webbed with clearance, this portal as evaporating: our theoretical(s);
our exponentials; this driven killer proclaiming pragmatism—if but to die, as
crying her womb, to invest in characteristics—where harm is good, this analytical, to come to
digestion afar this psych: our cryptic powers, to alarm a phallus, while
reaching for a foreign flame: this livid music, at accordions with strife, our
memories at clearance to cherish father.
It could to deaths, or potent climaxes, our terrors aching as omens:
this inner mother, that grand-for-parents, our grandmas fleeing for
recognition: if but to cherish, this Asian dove, while Africa wanes
insanity—that flippant advance, as cagey a sore, to emote such tyranny. We flourish passions, this ironic advice, to
come to closures drunk with elation: that fabulous hailstorm; our moments at
thoughts; this realization of those things that never live: if but to cadence,
alive this feeling, to test while fraught with disgusts; this essence to self,
our flickering of notions, while wanting for essence this running adventure:
that far to closure cry, this welkin eye-horror, our guilt at souls for powers:
if torn asunder, at tremendous empathy, where said silence becomes this
infringement. We should to live, this
wife with kids, as exploring this sanctimonious communion—where hell is fire,
as sprinkled with waters, to imagine this song would sing: our edgy
attractions, this voice in Africa, where three men claim fatherhood; but
courage fails, as romance dwindles, this sudden fury reviving essence—that
angry man, to subdue his tendencies, or channel rage into sexual dalliances—;
that far-to-dream, as whetstone-excursions, to float through brains gaining
control…indeed, to fractions, this love for fools, while he never sung so
valiantly: those typical tea-wives—those yearning surges—as generating this
invariable energy—as love would perish, this advice of villains, to want for
psychotic raptures—if but to scream, this game of gin, while slammed in mind
against a Malibu cliff. I could to love,
where aches are clearance, as more this fatal sacrifice—as wanting excitement,
but never to leave, if but this vulture was with clearance. {I see us dying, as living immortally, fleeing
into hectic atmospheres. I see us
loving, while framed in chaos, at two becoming friends; this lavish life-crane,
our casual deaths, this anchor supporting our advances; to love at treasures,
to die at measures, to come to popping our necks—this fatal spin, to culture
our lives, while so close to perish another’s touch: this music screaming, our
lyrics internal, this heart as flooded with resonance—that indifferent cry, as
lying to mirrors, at attics spinning our rages—this mystic infringement, that
cliff so close, our leaping into sanity; as lives our torches, this field of
dragons, this deep spontaneity—where wombs mourn, as needing closure, to crave
with life this warrior’s infusion—that caged excitement, as privileged our faces,
running for dying this deep resentment: that achy clam, this mortal lobster,
out Cesar salads: if but to live, akin to flying, our existential carnival;
where mothers flee, as aborted this life, to come to terms this child at
birth}…in tears to exist, at fears to advance, in mourning to erupt that fatal
leap…where cries are painted, this scream within wailing, to come to lights a
century in age.
