Saturday, September 9, 2017

Thunder At Mindcaves

Those parachute eyes, as cavalier skies, such pride that revving kettle—which died to witness, our used forgiveness, another’s jewels—wherewith, his life, musing blues, confused in parts—ambivalent gestures, as detached seduction, our junction as bare waterfalls—to clash by essence, laughing while screaming, our walls depicting silence; therewith, our daily abuses, our drums as music, this lose feeling restrained: that casual fool, at purpose a fortnight, galloping through forests islands—this misfit’d illusion, as deployed reality, its base centered in twilights—those burgundy emotions, as turquoise helium, as rapture born of insanity: such sweaty palms, seated at awnings, about cloves musing introjects—as reciting cadence, our alarms at seven minutes, this relentless ambition: that city stomach, that country vomit, our nerves gasping our names.     We eject mercy, such freezing calamity, our mirrors assassinating confidence: that awkward glance, cemented in awkward speeches, to live that second dying by climax—this touch by brains, as ousting mediocrity, while inducing a session by sadness—this core fiddling, as finding our company, at hectic churns aborting our sanity.     It flutes forever, as adjusted forever, a man at solace nibbling peace—that slender nightmare, as gracile celestials, this mixture this contradiction—as broken that arc, at purpose our workers, our generators on repeat—at which, becomes life, this terrible elation, as accused by reflections: that faraway minx; those channeled sensations; this wrestling energies awakened—by terrors at love, while lagoons stir, to find through mud a glint of pure springs: that cryptic cadence, while injected his heart, this appreciative pouch; where Love ballets, eyes immersed in sunshine, too far to reach—this addled soul, at currents with traumas, painted for falling to rise at unawares—those rapturous cries, as sudden to awaken, his palms moist in rituals.     We music life, despite our radio stations, alarmed by frequencies; this ace by silence, this immortal violence, our vehemence seeping into our auras—that saffron moon; those beige stars; our blackened paradise—where sadness is gentle, this coming to terms, at steep realizations as laughter becomes prevalent—this mischief person, rooted in meditations—so steep as to touch a beating vibration—to know his cadence, as essence awakens, to cry his fever—with joys to lights, as light to fires, this thunder at mindcaves.  
                     

[Hi Love—our acacia cries, while pierced by mirrors, as livid as unspoken resentment; while loved for broken, that arcade smile, those shades by brown cadence—this voice of essence, as lived our remembrance, to culture with time our divine catapults: if but to breathe, at hectic churns, this life filled with tugs—as yanking our souls, so much so soon, each dread by testimonies; this inner sermon, this candent preacher, our cries averted by reality; while torn a mayfly, steeped in marsh, to immerge an angelic vessel: those green blades, that lime season, our auburn leaves: our essence watching, as to feel such sparks, as resonance with an intense presence—this spectrum in self, as attuned to silence, to think as thought generating chi: this infant nursing; this mother at woes; this space in kindness elated with breastfeeding.     It comes with pains, this pollinated existence, at points one-to one with metaphysics. It comes with science, this complicated existence, at points one-to one with epistemology. It comes with hearts, this compacted existence, at points one-to-one with pragmatism; this mystic endeavor, as losing his terms, at once, to realize, It is but existence—this flying current, as aloof to lies, while wrestling misconceptions: our cryptic minds, embedded in brains, while far too equipped to reason through nuances: this space of cries, our waves to seas, our dolphins beating our cadence—as sought to live, those multiple eyes, running for fleeing into magnificence…where turtles pause, as speeding to feel, our rabbits steadily racing too fast].

Immemorial times those feelings affected by lusts.

    It rarely falls as it should. In forcing syntax, one dies. So precedented; one dream those days, and nerves were fretting. Affected by l...