I
listen but deserts, this elicit wilderness, as to brooks our Spanish screams—as
tall tales, this soul-cell, our vacant trance-phone: that livid lightning, as
beige discernment, this future at mystic yesteryears. I hear silence, this captive frequency, our
yells screeching thunder: that Zenist River, our southern baptisms, this winter
by genetics—to arise bleeding, as sweat trickles sulfur, our baths seated in
electric chairs: that cold distance, as rapt’d by dangers, those labels
affronting our mirrors. I’m opera born,
this ballad comedian, our orbs as harpoons—that wicked grin, as infused to die,
at terrors that sleeping cadence—that moment crying, as swooped a vulture, our
rabbits fleeing through meadow-storms: that skycraft, as sky-silver, at terrors
this sky-center: our airwaves, as air-caves, this slave by natural birth: our
pensive reality, sipping but condemned, as if we all seek sobriety: that achy
soulquake, to judge by reflection, at errors those that appear as difference:
this warm winter, as our cold summer, this fulgent performance—to laugh his
brains, rebuking engrams, this introject threatening sanity—as tempest Spaniards,
or nomad Egyptians, this swan nibbling for breakage our divinities—as born
silky, our slime to mud-drifts, our mothers at terrible conclusions—where apes
ravish, as gorillas vanish, our wives flatulent by graces. I knew treachery, this flame at dice, where
demons appeared—this ludic thought, as abbreviated with passion, flipping
through a thunderclap: that intrepid swan, that ancient name, our saffron
begonias—as Asian rites, this swoosh of winds, to cry our lagoon as mere
eye-prints; hitherto, this lulling current, at theories to believe in justice:
those sunray muscles; that firefly heart; this thief our wilderness as
accustomed to private echoes—where mother cries, as dead a leaf, this emotional
harvest—to laugh his arc, as filled with sentiments, that three year chip. I should to vanish, as should to appear, clutching
this woman’s church-bell: that inner rosary, those flickering sparks, this wax
as cementing our arrangements: those laughing priests, as distracting heresies,
to come to grips this lethal anchor—as never a soul, to die this wealth, our
adventure by heirloom seas: that heartbeat-sermon; that sky-communion; that
blast as fire igniting his journey—where father smiles, as steeped in essence,
our grandparents steeply in trance—as caustic rites, to invade his guts, this
spell absorbed. I mirror patience,
reacting to snowballs, while pushing for bleeding this lance; this serpent
lust, as a serpent mélange, while potent a serpent’s repentance. We must retreat, while billows are rising,
this swan an alchemic sword—as granny lives, this augury of information, this
rune of silence—to purchase by thoughts, this incredible memory—so young a
cave-beat; as unphysical mystics, this pensive kismet, this whisper at stipples
those screams; herewith, an anchor, peering at hazel eyes, afraid that love
shall die—if but to brooks, or Spanish insights, where love would resurrect;
but ever to deaths, this place about souls, as becoming sacral our Holy Cross;
at truths, this dimension, as epistemic trances, to feel this subjective
conviction—where gramps forges clocks, those ancient antiques, as granny nudges
perfection—this space at arcs, to infuse a tsunami, this fireball laughing
while tearing but lobes: indeed, but christic; indeed, but feelings; indeed, but
foreign assaults rifting through insanity—those turquoise trembles, as friendly
with time, a bit too photic for human perception—that cultic yogi, as this
morbid academic, as, too, this one
generating happiness—as laughs his brains, affronted that terror, afire this
gravid fixture: this flapping of feathers; this tremendous as grayness; that woman too proud to subject—so more to
honesty, to utter, We love you, while
spent in time a vessel of dying. I’m
seeing gums, that marvelous laughter, as extant this saber-existence: that
sudden splendor; that steep explosion; this want for graphic warfare—as never a
crime, as to hewn perfection, while tender this want for death—that inner
other, as liquid insanity, to clash at currents those dreams.
