I
love us, some sort to sickening, at variances controlling myths—that cranky
ache, as elusive this touch, while filled an uncanny nuisance; that typical
emotion, or atypical explosions, to have for seconds that fire behind hearts:
this welkin laugh, as pure excitement, our features exposed to blind eyes. I love us dying, as never to deaths,
occasioned this sin. I love us clashing,
as moons erect, our temperaments infused by mercies—this elaborate ritual, to
find his focus, arousing an inner city.
It tore heaven, angelic mischief, this song buried in precious eyes:
those cold shivers, as warm winters, plucking auburn tulips. I die to feel it, this cadence of richness,
appalled by passions; where love blossoms, as filled with anxieties, to realize
this person is love: that candid filter; those raging cries; that volt too
steep to ignore. I fly as fleeing, to
arrive at courtyards, our church-grounds infuriating mystics: as nights grew,
our unsafe expressions, this cadence as mutual vulnerability—if but his song,
if but our nectar, if but to perish—I’d love as dying, or live as flying, to
rapture with curses—this bold endeavor, as ever we sought—this space in souls,
aloft. I love us grieving, this inmost
beauty, to arrive that super-glow: that making of children; that sweet guitar;
our jazz forwarded by a thousand afflictions; as but to perish, as but to live,
as but again heavy this dynasty; as, nevertheless, our vile blueness, for
rivers have dried, where oak trees are sprouting: our paranoid barks; our inner
sky-deaths; this voice as seasoned with inner demons: as brought to life, to
re-measure life, too infused this fuse that once satiated. I see us waltzing, our pits desiring more,
this moreness invading psychologies:
those desert psychs, at wars with our magi,
afflux a tendency to cry as provoking elements—this driving animation, our
cartoons to brains, this ache as sudden his cranium: that spurt of growths,
this gorgeous travesty, as more I jest; to die with weathers, as sprouting with
huts, this book but a brook of sparrows.
I
love us chasing, at pace with gorillas, to sever but a second by gods; this
inner pyramid, that sphinx at leisure, our detriments bleeding our
treasuries—to see for cultures, this slant to thoughts, where it becomes
terrible to analyze; indeed, a curse, as forced to love, where inner activity
outweighs this morbid millennia. I felt
a feeling, as abreast with emotion, to carve this legacy: that immortal swan,
as ringing infinity, to come to seconds as blank at motions: this face
screaming; our mystics wailing; our songs as sold in silence; insomuch, a scar,
this incredible rhythm, as avoiding attributes.
Ours stands at textures, so gruesome a second, to flux with sulfur as
arising a vessel: that time of thieves; our temples to brains; our heats to
engines.
