Para-Scientific

We electric lights, this faraway dream, pitted at beauty’s staircase: our sore throats, screaming at demons, laughing while gutted: our bones bleeding, our nostrils swollen, our cartilage chipping. I fiddled a tassel, aloof to winning, at terrors such innocent eyes—to consider retreats, this countenance haunted by—this tyranny to become psychotic—as measured insanity, by hypocritical legacies, peering at remarkable thighs: this place as stars, while scarred a brain, a smidgen for running by mirrors; that again frustration, as believed a vulture, while catering a dream. I laugh and die; I mourn and live; this brood of features accustomed to cringing—a mother’s mind, this merging of souls, to picture incarnated swans. We live it lividly, this virtue through lies, at Horror’s House refusing ripples: our frantic motif, this theologian, at treacherous heartcaves: that violent beauty, as but a second, to erupt while claws are churning—this fool for thoughts, as living by cages, accustomed to nodding while appalled: those comely eyes; that want to possess; such dalliance to lyrics as more by life. We sift abrasions, and thresh rebukes, while shifting through traffic another travesty—those ripples bleeding, our feeble resistance, as No to us becomes Yes for them. I met an owl, at three sixty degrees, girt for flying at capture to cuffs: this livid light, this inner feud, as never another that woman—as purity-folly, or purity-warfare, to want for touch this crying wolf: that ache in brains, that image at screens, this vulnerable hell-spent night-lightning—to rupture his heart, an anklet as a dream, our screams sacrificed to goodbyes—this feeling dying, as darkened his heart-lure, plucking a saffron tulip. We die this way, at vengeance for winning, where another chose but destiny—this blue leaf, that orange bark, this melting theme—to want for fever, as to tug for dying, as reached apex and retreated: this cold life, that garnered electricity, that naïve gaze—as flutes and trombones, or lutes and flights home, while facing apocalypse—this inner mile, this fever to sickness, this stranger a note to mirrors. It could to life, as nameless a thought, this chalice and wine—as sober he breeds, as reckless he lies, while both sold an uncanny fairytale.     [I saw a lotus, disguised as a butterfly, we died in essence rebirth’d in anger—this furious deliverance, as incantation, a tribute to silence—this vixen of waves, those waves to fantasies, this cry as shivering through air-doves: our music resistant; our aches as pangs; this growing flavor cringing its farewells. I felt a dream, as to sense a muscle, where unsaid affections blossomed by roses: this wedded prow, this helm as electric, this contagion leering at morbid visions: our inner reggae; our Jamaican queens; this feeling as coming into digestion: if but to stars, as scars to brains, to have this immortal sensation—such torn azure, that art by seduction, this flipping through Zodiac signs—if but by breath, to lie by cadence, while drifting into something esoteric; indeed, for passions, as crying our rains, this vandal skating through mudslides—where pain is sincere, as joy chisels fabrication, while both are swarming this fainted arc: that African face; those European graces; that Jewish hairline—as more to ruins, this soul to fancies, as aches through attention given: this lake of actions, by brooks of languishing, to hear by storm that languid voice—as Monroe would live, as love for Simone, while three perished running to our ships; that sailing heart, that scented womb, our days to nights fraught by elation; to cry goodbyes…].