I’m terrified,
to witness afflicted purity, while tugged to embrace status quo: this fury as
driven, that achy brook, our meadows flickering shadows; this sky aflame, as
broken at terrors, to die a falcon’s energies: this torrid current, as pure
undergrowth, at lights flying into ski-cliffs: those brown khakis, that beige
jacket, those flats soot’d by Africa. I
felt imagery, as afire an ante, peering at Christ’s eyes; where hell is fever,
so groomed a nightmare, a man outranking justice: that casual split, as rift at
several parts, our arithmetic speaking multiple languages; as if to flee, this
rounded survival, those Asian yogis—while torn at music, or caged at Quinton,
to arrive pardoned for homicides: this frequent exaggeration, as seizing our
days, flayed for writhing but insanity: that mirthy tonation; those burgundy
dreams; our mire as clear as infants—this place at clearance, that inculcated
sale, our essence bleeding our introductions: by souls to love, as never this
rite, to infuse afflicted with chaos: herewith, are gremlins, spewing green
slime, at once to insist on pure affinities.
I could for love, as destroying love, where unsaid love lurks a
kilometer afar: our turquoise rhinestones; our inner poltergeists; this house
as haunted by holiness; where elks perish, fleeing into kingdoms, our arrows
bowing our cupids; as tested immortals,
this flurry of lipstick, while grinding teeth-spaces: those morbid bumps; that
facial acne; this woman’s skin but flesh—to arrive as willingness, this section of rivalries, where two embark upon a
rapacious undertow; while set to live, as nothing to perish, our scarves
bleeding resurrections.
Midevening
I
silenced nightfall, as hectic a phantom, to appear by chest-caves—this slave of
spirits, as parted our lives, where currents seep into fireballs: that person
seething; that cauldron cold; our attraction an instance prior to kef—this
fleeting essence, embedded in
terrors, as faced with a segment of selfhood: those orange lights, as fuming
indecision, our discernment as haywire—this flicker of dice, our prophecy
lingering, this beige moon—adrift black-magic, for life was dark, at tremors to
witness emerging lights—those achy fretters, this steep frustration, as
flustered revolving this prison-vestibule—those warm waters, that immergence of
saintliness, to arrive at faces with darkness—this killing sensation, as driven
by souls, to afloat through serious turmoil: that outer lose; this inner
growth; our cymbals clanging as chimes.
I could to chase, by losing investments, where it feels good to love:
that crazy thought, as steep with scars, this venture acclaimed as casinos—that
game at woods; this sylvan mentality; our frightful insanities; where Love was
shallow, as bold in confidence, to speak through mere presence—this inner
thought, of touching flesh, as two die where another breeds—these torn
emotions, that fatal cry, our tears bathing our features—that psychotic self,
as standing at attention, to dwindle afar that tragic kiss; nevertheless, or
notwithstanding, this vague but relevant difference—as such to live, addicted
to attributes, our purpose to decorating Adonai: those soft limbs; that
mahogany flesh; those eyes too precious for this world—as dying insanity,
filled as oozing, this ante screaming for longevity—to hold attention, unless
nuance fades, while crazed a longing soul.
I saw for Passion, aflame our
ashes, where said mystic danced through snow-fire—this current raging, as
stemming from alliance, to ask about sacrifices—those jasper wounds, that
purple bruise, this flailing of categories—that fatal imperative, this stoic at love, our unfeeling parachutes; to rescue
deaths, while feeding horses, at one with nonchalance.
