Friday, September 22, 2017

Our Cursed, Benevolent Breath

Children are smitten, where adults passion panic, as graphic insanities—to courage penmanship, ironic a curse, to reckon surpass thoughts—that inner General, that lieutenant’s flag, this scarf our neighbor’s blood—to seize fear, as internal castles, our fortresses crumbling.  I’m jaguar eyes, or butterfly wings, a ferret on her deathbed—where language blurs, while gripping Light, our pledges to return; those morbid whispers, as awakened by chants, something foreign his skin: that bloody towel; that inner grasshopper; that cygnet at distresses—herewith, our bones rattling; our cages to, Alleluia; this controversy concerning fires—that beige eyelid; that flaming red mane; this box of tea-powder—as powered his brains, this a.m. thump, that mahogany air-flight—where random his essence, those existential beauties, this meta-sky river—as afloat his thoughts, to desire flesh, as inverted a psychotic loner; therewith, this inner daughter, to pass but secrets, our legacies uprooted by spines: those wine-shaped eyes, [that potential for dying], this miracle by DEVOTIONS—or more our soul’s reservoir, at fires that claim, as divested speaking to itself; this mirror crying, our Oms at play, this self in persons bleeding its rivalries—as cultured a fool, or less a monster, this wrangling with leviathan—a zebra’s calmness, a jackal’s wits, this fever as settled into dementias—those inner blue symbols, that bluebird’s agility, that rhino’s anger—where said a curse, has embedded life, this inverted miracle—where nomads explore, this keen terrain, seated alone at whispers this bush: our SPORADIC attractions, our fluttering feathers, as rare as golden catfish—while touched at scars, our dragon-breath waters, that exiled sand-river: this spidery feeling, as never to fruition, while proud to utter, I thank you: that outer landscape, that indelible spirit, this eraser buffing frantically—as outwitted dearly, those lava-eyes, our Tibetan cries—insomuch, to panic, or curse existence, our birthdates a symbol of dying.  I laugh to heal it, this riveting fraction, our apostolic nightmares—that warrior of sights, to pause elation, immersed by Catherine—that Siena dream, that shoebill’s gaze, that tenderness so arid with courage—if but to perish, as lives our Minds, our elephants kicking at earth: that casual pain, to water his eyes, that immortal connection—while dueling for days, our action tusks, reading E. E. Cummings—that miracle paradise, as embedded in souls, this European ankh; to come with wails, these tales of love, where never but a glance: (this blue whale, that inner Kalahari, those leopard eyes, that cheetah’s image); indeed, our cosmic frustration, our tiger stone woes, this saber’s tooth—as aflame a curse, blessed at bleeding, our compassionate refusals—or more abrupt, as never a thought, to seat our feelings with partialities.           

Immemorial times those feelings affected by lusts.

    It rarely falls as it should. In forcing syntax, one dies. So precedented; one dream those days, and nerves were fretting. Affected by l...