So
dead to silence, aloof through cycles, at tears this inner vex—to tense
metaphysics, as cursed a scream, at dreams our psychic physics—to capture
swans, this tale of pirates, as soft but driven those times. We seek closure, this commonality, as
refusing to thrust a volt; to laugh, as, nevertheless, to feel but
comatose—this wicked pleasure, as evil
cadence, arising as one spent by pleasures: our cruel existence, at flux
through portals, at love those cries. It
could but feelings, to ignore such dying, while cleaving to absence: those
beige rivers, our inner Sierras, this queen cooking breakfast—to tether a
thought, at rifts to perish, those enchanting thighs—as marvelous
detrimental(s), or Cajun instrumentals, this man too exclusive—where crime
cherished, this art of Satans, those hearts invoking, Isabella—or deaths to
life, this testing of souls, to give but essence time but souls—this inner
math, as outer cries, our secrets to feel as wholesome—therewith, a scar, this
terrible friend, insofar, as our mental guidance.
We
would to fancies, as lives a miracle, leering but finish-lines; those sexual
acrobatics, this cloister in minds, our guilt while torched within—those jasper
daisies, as to visit our sanities, those exercised arms; this killing of souls,
our childhood mascots, those laps as barely breathing; while bold to flourish,
as cut to grizzle, this grit as purpose as dreams—as, notwithstanding, our
trickster brains, while believing deception those deer eyes. We famish softly, a fortnight of fasting,
where elements become jumbled: that brave swan; that reaching sibling; our
imperfect perfections: if but a pot, our broiled chicken, those onions wafting
through membranes—our child-reach screams, that inner teddy, our cats too
selfish for sexy—as torn a cord, or vexed a villain, our daughters ingesting
behaviors—those tall tales, as verses actions, to come to terms spewing
venom. [Our skies are cold, this bathing
by fires, to flee as outrunning our mirrors—this beige current, as aloof to
violence, while our sheets speak to warfare: this terrible pressure; those
horrible pleasures; our mothers laughing at innocence].
We
grapple images, debating scars, this woman too vicious that faint by hearts—as gorgeous scenery, or stage-life
insanity, too appealing by feeble gestures: those sunlit eyes, that lethargic, Yes, where loins rupture as bleeding
through cloth: those terrible tortures, to win such legacy, this funeral
craving its last dance—where father laughs, as corners to souls, to pilfer our
refrigerators: those spoiled greens; that peach-fuzz chili; that stalwart
nectarine—as, too, to smile, our wives ranting, this feeling by souls a
miracle: that chanting derrière; those manicured breasts; that boisterous
laughter—as nigh maniacal, or ever psychotic, to catch a glimpse while feeling
uneasy; indeed, her life, as running for perfections, this chase as becoming
resentments: those porcelain knees; this kneading of personas; this waistline
as far unbearable.
Such
infatuation, by mere a glance, our poets as maddened insanities—those cyan
blouses, that blasé affection, this feeling as lurking while arms fail to
reach: if but to die, this kiss flailing wolves, our coyotes chasing foxes:
that horrid embrace; as livid a scar; to open wounds laughing while steeped at
love; this miracle confession, to perish those trimmed bangs, embarrassed by
highlights: that new invention, as becoming, Simone, or broken a heart beating
gloom—as arisen his mind, our inner humanities, this armoire of fantasies: that
phantom brain, to swoop through darkness, as appearing a second into manifestos—this
gleaming portrayal; that lingering soul-press; this ink to wounds that bladder
of fruits; to hold her life, as cores churn, affected by tears.
