I’m
jammed and thrust and tormented through prisms our binds pulsating our arms
reaching while Love vanishes. It
lingers softly, stung and ravished, kneeling for acquittal—our burnished
mirrors, our concave horrors, this demon at multiplication—our tables bleeding,
our Latin crying, our music but dungeons barreling through bone. I feel it sober; I feel it by clouds; I
live spinning our tornadoes’ wheels: our inner priests; our liquid nuns; our
bishops strangling ghosts—as lost his haven
to abort his soul (that clumsy
sex-life our adored treasures): as mother dies, that fatal defeat, while to
appear an image our inner screens—: those screaming sensations, that mocking
smile, this inner man dying to chaos—as pure disease, whereas, to garner
forgiveness, this light as defrauded his energies—as held to dying, this mad
scientist, while thinking became a threat to our establishment. I attic sensations, to garret
frustrations, our flesh bumping-up into rashes: this violent current, as slept
his arc, our repetition as hitting lightning—that lyrical charm, those grievous
limbs, as scarred his brain seething in agony: this metric lamp, as killed our
sorrow, to morph by deaths our ramped anxieties—this mercurial swan, our
wretched motif, while ablaze a feeling returning to ground zero—: that magnificent
triumph, pleated in graves, as won a soul to gain such victory—our swept
carcass, startled by ghosts, our meadows to glitter, our harpoons through
flesh—as wandered those minds, to ask completion, where masked mystics imbued
his life-line; indeed, to psychs, as screaming our new brains, while floored
insanity to break his aura: that fatal man, this inner game, our hearts as
gallant screamers; to purchase clearance, as this elusive second, aroused at
souls such fleeting portraits. I
wedded glimpses this impish soul (that clumsy sex-life our adored
treasures)—by ink to vanish, where wretched appears, our palms knitting
therapy: that grenade-jaunt, to walk his sanity, this gem to brains jutted at
mind-domes: this furious person, a secret to memoires, seated that fireplace
burning invisible contracts—that Illuminati,
our daughters to blue jays, our mothers laughing while filled a sudden joy;
indeed, to perish, this trepid disease, pleading by reputation our content: those warlike gestures, that bellicose
fever, our daring to become our children’s legacy—that faraway tear, as pushing
through minutia, to tug an instant where Love was gleeful. It wears by lights; it tears by waves; our
bosoms blazing that caress—as torn for living, while living for torn, such
luster a glance running from mirrors—that salacious charm, those gregarious
limbs, our permanence this wrestle through portals—as lived a soul, too cold
for patience, to peer by lights running for textures. I thought a gazelle while reaching for faces alone a coyote as reborn: this mystic
love; that stardom infatuation; this person our eyes as never for pleasures: if
but to waltz, as enchanted a myth, by psychic measures refuting screams—as
starry for beauty, or anxious our Armageddon, as vanished to feel such as
poets—those dreamy cheekbones; that frolicking aura; our era to
sandcastles. Love as glimmer, or Love
as glitter, by Love so early our dysfunction; as left with child, eager those forests,
at hell with feeling elderly: our gallant lies, our roots to fiction, this
chase to possess paragraphs—as fathers bleeding, or mothers at wars, this psych
piecing together our puzzles (as told to live, this hermetic disease, so gentle
a ruse where paradise eroded). I must
forget; I must remember; I’m too far exposed for closure—this welkin medicine;
this formal advance; those at cadence while feeling for cloves—this inner born-again,
as pleading existence, our Para-psychical minds: this grind to breathe, as
infused with chaos, our parents clawing at ashes: if but a scream, this felt
chasm, at wars to confess this vivid ache—that plank in grime, as leaped
uneasily, arriving at postures peering at roses.
