Friday, September 1, 2017

Swan Brain

It swelters—Love     this wavy heat-storm     at tears to stir it: our casual heartsore; our elastic mores; this evermore love: to sense by shifts     such electric mindcaves     at terrors to fathom reality—where science flurries     at horrors such glories     mangled for flipping with dolphins. [We become incipience, caged in conundrums, at wars to reflect perfection: such achy brain-flights, sighted in seconds, while converse disappears: that shadowed person, at stairs to harmony, where ladders become branches: our cryptic touch     by pure elucidation     our nighthawk visions: that mental gardenia, pruned at passions, to morph by pure epiphanies—as torn to chaos, this vetting of feelings, where a metal-rose becomes a pendant].     Anger is penchant—Love     this pretzel of activity     insofar, as ruining light-fixtures: that ottoman prayer branch     our booths to brains     those spaces as trespassed; indeed, to courage, fumbling to speak, our internets fraught by meerkats.     {We harvest lightning, our memories as whales; our temperaments as near irksome: such dramatic fevers, as carried our existence, our thoughts ghostly abodes}.     Its melodramatic, this inner soliloquy, staring at silence—that immortal swan, as pure affection, too cold that favorite quilt; to test with time, this village of insights, while at feelings near remorse: that course of passions, those gifts returned, while churning in greatness: such cheetah speed; such genet grace; such by law this passionate guidance—where mother watches, culling out beauty, while debris wilts by application.     [Our haunted houses, encased by intentions—such by conviction a faucet; this fire of brains, this mind of meetings, such impressions leaking—where otters frolic, where owls spin, while disconcerted by nature—this fragile sturdiness, while seeping into menus, as much for moreness our births. It shall become     this knitted abrasion     as triumphant beauty—while lingering through threshing, our portals to vacuums, to invert becoming this human sun].     I adore imageries; this plethora of activities; our music created through symbols: as perfect imperfection; that trite rhythm; where perception garners a sense of clarity: by glorious birds, this mocking of arcs, our treacheries forgiven with graces: this terrible passion, as our magical passion, pushed for purpose through pleasure; while more to live, singing through vines, as tugged in depth an immortal brain.  

PS.

    The strength to withstand the winds; a spell as it effects/affects some creature. A sudden moment filled with absolute certainty, so wro...