I
see nuns, priests, and electric currents—this thin thunder, at wonders our
arcs, while celebrated in sulfur; this casual scream, as heard through
kilometers, as adjusted and returned. I
see psychs, situated in personalities, a tale too human to adjust: this miracle
island, embedded in psyches, to flush through grainy rivers: that African
woman, plush with Europe, admiring our Spanish natives. I see swans, pardoned for faux pas(s),
laughing as icecream melds with sand: that inverted texture, our mothers breathing,
our souls adorned in leather jackets.
I’ve cried life, reading through emotions, admonished by this poet’s
curse: our casual drugs; our milky liquors; our days wrestling through
sobriety: to claim existence, ten meters into sadness, at elation that a child
was born: our Mercedes-membranes; our Gucci intellects; our happiness as truths—where
father smiles, sipping teas, engrossed in sheer proximity: those light grays,
as formed in classes, where a daughter ponders poverty: that sudden joy, as clashing
with shame, where essence bleeds politics—wherewith, our humanitarians, as
lives, Maya, this cyan-red portrait; as dreamt forever, that perfect frontal-pose, our eyes agaze’d by structures:
those Prada hips; that Dior gaze; those eclectic gestures—as ‘gurgitating
acrobatics, if but this trapeze, our whiffs by Chanel. I see mystics, this secret unfolding, our
third-eyes bombarded by visions: those royal garbs, our saints—that terrible
glory;—if but to confess, this Burberry craving, this woman, that belly, that
dance. (I’m seeing lightning, as casual
affection, this elderly soul, that artsy Trench coat); as perfect perception,
grounded in arrogance, this feeling that life has created; thereto, I wipe a
tear, peering at Rolex eyes: this soul screaming, as perfected our dungeons,
immersed in volunteer services; that hectic star-sky, as pure revelation, our
addicts feeling abandoned: adrift this portal, a daughter with ties—rejuvenation
spotted in an Armani vest: that beige desert; those sky-deers; this celebration
of Santa Clause. I’m catching vibes,
fiddling through valley-attics, leering at faces; as all alone, these foreign
features, agaze’d by a Valentino model: those piercing eyes; mane at attention;
this deliberate blouse—to curve his thoughts, this act of trust, while vying
for domination: if but to live, as but to perish, if but to fly—that cold
atmosphere, so warm that moment, seeping into penchant cries. I see miracles, our Neutrogena magic, seated
at plummeted highs: that shift by necks; those casual denims; this genetic
abrasion—where mother laughs, as blessed a scar, a bit too hebetated to fail
his mission: our Fendi editors; our California dreams; our freedoms cursing our
choices—where beauty entangles, as often a gift, our souls tugged in multiple
directions; hereto, we die, as, hereto, we live, our parents knitting our
afterworld: that diary of green deaths; those high cheek bones; those
proportionate thighs. I’m seeing women,
this field of personalities, our Magi with
canes—that rattler’s brains, as splayed asunder, this morphing leviathan: as
death would vanish, as lives our photos, our secret societies [where ritual
becomes law, our Cadillac entrances, our knit-wit ideals—to feel as children,
relived in currents, at love this incredible catastrophe; hitherto, this
constructive grin, while steeped in dying, where Love feels some sort of energy.
{I saw images, these Aldo models, as
gorgeous those cries. I thought that name, that fatal obsession, gnawing upon
conscious gates: our McCartney ambitions; our slithering through ethics; this
sudden retreat}: by waves a curse, as blessed an entity, those
wine-flushed-eyes].
