I
failed fatherhood: I’ve failed humanity: I cry without tears; and death was
real, this splendid absence, leering through eyes by vacuums: that sheer
insanity, our constipation, as attempting to feel our emotion—to bring it
forward, this cyst to brains, our tragic epilepsies: that riveted culture,
attempting to vitiate depression, at terrors this steep admiration: to sense so
closely, as forced to behave, where unsaid love administers a rift. I cry purple: I die intrusions: I want for
romance a second into a feeling: this horrid shadow, as blackness to lights, to
film by hearts or cryptic silence: this musical madness, as spontaneity, while
focused your image—this space to perish, this land as blighted, our souls as
revolving those possibilities: if torn asunder, this delicate rose, our petals
spelling out c.a.t.a.s.t.r.o.p.h.e: as bubbling acidic(s), this inch into
lovelocks, to admire for cadence this distant rock: instead, I confess, this
awkward hour, where love erases those misconceptions—this valid animosity,
those shivering tulips, to reach out by kissing unsaid monster; at inner
tyranny, this eclectic rainstorm, to love while found to fall apart. I feel dejected; this wretched merry-for-
rounds, while suppressing this mutual fault-by-findings: that snake by
inheritance; this dragon by clearance; as said for perfect while bleeding
deathly our sentiments—that casual off-birth, this psych flying, our
grandparents feeling beyond statutes—that bold clearance, as seeping by
realizations, to come to grips this reoccurring finish-line: that gray
fraction, as opposed to seeing, where hearts thump that sudden revelation—if
sung to seek, or seeking as sung, this morbid, terrible investigation—to ask
for sincerity, as rendered this monsoon, to fall to carpet gripping at air-beams—as
wooden elation, our waxed infinities, while cleaving to this intricate act of
repentance—as mother’s proud, forsaking our scissor(y) sacrifice, while seeping
into needing forgiveness. We could to
die, at love that hour, to resist unto deaths as never returning: this constant
butterfly; this regressive caterpillar; this eyeless ladybug—where mothers
perish, as fathers are oblivious, to have his thoughts at facial confrontation:
that beer with wine; out pork-rhine sensations; this thought as perfect where
behavior appears cordial; as feelings soar, to imbue our hearts, to curse with
time our retrievals; as, therewith, this deadly incantation, afloat as drilled
into repressive states: that casual torment; such sincere withdrawal; to
scratch by sights of blood while screaming bloody sensations: our mind-fields;
our soul-deaths; this miracle as aloof to proprieties: our deadly sorrows, to
want for clearance, plummeted by extra-terrestrials—that gray vexing, as
seeking its face, to come by grips tripping into melancholia: that beige
remembrance; that tyrannical sensation; our days to crimes as uncommitted—where
essence moans, as groaning in essence, to fly with negligence. [I’m
dazed a storm, fumbling through rights and wrongs, at clearance to perish—this
finicky layer, where terror takes precedence, while one at horrors becomes
blind to actions; this elfin portrait, as gremlins frantic, to curse with time
our endless mirrors—this chaotic promise, as racing through shadows, to pull
but achy veins from faces: to give such torture, while privileged to winds, as
such to ignore this plaguing tumor. I
could to live, as divested of tranquility, while unsaid aircraft pillages our
dungeons—this horror of times, where sanity drifts, at clearance to speak in
silent depressions: this inner milking, as silk to swords, to pillage one’s
guts: this fantastic lobe, bombarded by tentacles, our minds becoming this
adverse cosmos—to die such kef, inverted but fleeing, this wave of images
destroying mind-portals].
