I
imagine forums this drapery
fulcrum our brains but stems—as caged
by sincerity, or carved from integrity, our war this fractured voyage: if songs
to sing, as sang such victory, while arriving at deaths; this spacial mystic,
our existential cries, this epistemic closure—as opened to hells, while
screaming dungeons, our psychs dispensing whetstones…this vestige unfair our wisdom but confetti our realism concerning x; those fabulous
tears as riveted devotion to perish through birth this flame. I’m sensing life, our ghetto heritage,
those welkin dreams—as pure disturbance, our interior phones, this wrench
unbolting sanity—as pensive beauty, to want by possession, as conforming by
disdain—this law by desires, that wretched insanity, those polished gestures—to
probe essence, while thrusting skies, our cloves with cognac—as terrible
concerns, that message ignored, such feral calamity. I saw contagion, to approach piracy, our
tones melodramatic—those trembling knuckles, that wafting scent, that
impeccable makeover. I merry at soul, such pure recollection, as never pure
enchantment—as forfeiting flaws, or those numbers by calendar, or those books
so frantic by darkness. We listen
this gray wounded for pleasure accustomed to niceties: those wakeful eyes;
that crossing of legs; that flawless conditioner—or rabid cries, through rabid
eyes, so sickly psychotic: our Stephen King(s), our horrible sails, this livid
caricature—to break palms, as knees rupture, our sanctimonious
hypocrisies—where mother churns, as returning to earth, that trek by trails
those terrors—to cry by lights, our fasting frenzies, this living by
communion—as blinking deaths, enthralled by seduction, at clarities this second
upon illusions: that achy membrane; our psychogenic trilogies; this inner
undulation—wherewith, are sensors, this maddening vibration, allergic to
dangerous minds: that dead soul, as living epistemologies, while wintering for
devoting dementias. I chuckle a
laugh, steeped in conditioning, where wings come through traumas—or stern
calamity, as self-induced, this Bobby Fisher at wars—those silent games, those
violent games, those eyes mimicking insincerity. I knew for love, this trenchant chaos, as
delusion sprouted existence; that sultry veneer, those sullen veils, this nib
by fibs becoming reality—to shake by core, this internal sunrise, that door
permanent to openness—as grayish memories, or coffee sparks, to flicker a clove
your thrust through arcs—this feminine dream, as a lawyers brains, at favor our
entrance: that candid goodbye; those shifting realizations; our prose raptures
distance—this trefoil bleeding, this tulip kissing, our gardenias as
bridesmaids. If but to have us I fear to regret us as something running refused its exits;
that terrible addiction those
wrinkles above brows our karma
refuting our mental devotion—as pure happenstance this misery as liquor our humors pervading Satan’s kitchen;
where essence screams, as deep clarity, our thoughts a layer too intrusive; by which,
are storms, our forbidden liaisons, our cornered brains.
