Thursday, September 7, 2017

Paradise Eroded

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. 

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...