Underdog Wings

I write to erase: I chase to retreat: I laugh undergoing duress…this fevered coldness, this warm travesty, those filters as leaking poison; where Love was gentle, this achy feeling, to misconstrue life: that molehill madness, that mystic fury, such by rage to outwit misery: if but to perish, laughing a storm, fevered as self-conscious: this looking at self, to witness our mistakes, as to sense this foreign person; where one winks, as one speaks, while another tampers with that foreign person: (this trespassing voice, a force deep in guts, while seated a millennia afar: that achy pressure, that sudden inversion, to reach an office where one speaks gibberish: that deep explosion, to utter that name, while a decade beyond reach: this music, so sweet to tears, this woman too removed from mirrors: to comb mane, at mere a glance, to utter this resistant moon).  We kiss at deaths, our shadows so close to symphonies, while another announces our incessant breaths: that wicked friend; that infant swan; this catastrophe while so selfish to yank another to dust—that dusky palm, this theoretical, this controversy surrounding intelligence: our sun rejected: our souls cleaving to hay: this filthy type of emotional bar-work.  (Her life is rich, this truism to lives, where it’s easy to flee for flying while ingesting auras: moreover, a dream, insofar, a vision, whereat, a terrific resistance: those ferrets with flees; that rubescent butterfly; that opalescent woman: as never a thought, or more advancement, as wrecked at wars floating to Trinidad).  I feel essence, this tricky confession, where there exists such monopoly: this secret kingdom, this palpable invisibility, while arguing with one to ignore experience: as chatters falderal, this empirical abstraction, while fleeing for driven into an inner volcano.  I’m low by numbers, as born an underdog, racing for captured—that winking clock, this year to souls, that voice as never so close to crying: furthermore, vexation, this in-for-out, as never for such abandonment: as teaching with bias, as distressed by color, while moving exhausted by culture-worship: this mayfly detention, this magpie tree, our owls to venture but a mile this earth—as cursed with love, to fuel with passion, as cut for monitored running into deserts: that easy trail, to forsake all souls, while cleaving to one: that inner fuel, at rabid talks, composed enough to love and forsake: as needing power, this voice as heard, to have for more, (that seven-headed monster).  It’s been life anew, or thoughts astray, needing something inexorable—as unexplained, this person by souls, as resistant our multiple minds: to have his thoughts, to trek his trails, to pass by piercing this stranger: our succinct’d laughter, as afar a cave, at one speaking simultaneously—as never to glisten, at attention to failures, at love with souls destroying beauty: that casual ache, those turns through Savannahs, that leopard standing as speaking with force. 

Gates & Freedoms

We love as tortured, this stylish game, affected for driven killed within: that gracile tear, those fallen waves, this flux in hearts by craft-lights—to seethe with justice, as found in courts, peering at envies this gracious figure: that woman lawyer, those dim treasures, this clamp to hearts a symbol.  I ache silence, at deep remorse, something alike to being human: this psychical test, as deserts bleed, our wrists chained to morality: that anxious creature, that devious pastor, this welt as slashed his throat: if but for momma, if but for father, those above seeking clemencies: our radical graves, as breaded in dust, to fury over scriptures: that feminist dream, such as beauty ignored, reaching for finding womanly terrors.  I chalice, grieving, listening to oldies, jazzing in private—as far too familiar, abased for fallen, this aesthetic man.  I called a spirit, for mother writhes, stirring in limbo—that frantic lamb, cut for leaping, this gnosis tree: insomuch, a breath, to journey for Christmas, this hex buried in London.  I roam Paris, ventured in gorgeous arts, to visit with life this German test—as threshed in Jerusalem, our histories our dictates, fueled for flaming a furious curse.  I see a heart, as pledging allegiance, but cut for leaking, pleading, Father!  I knew a loser, this vicious machine, to come to life breeding dragons.  I heard a soul, to resonate a sentence, at bars threshed for believing again!  It could to love, if cores are shattered, this man fiddling an acorn: those shivery limbs, spaced as magnetic, to admire for failing his constitution: that devout woman, as still for human, this uncouth agitation; but never a soul, to court a Cyclops, this eyeful imagination: that gusset breaking, this ache as lethal, those eyes as fully analytical—where analyses courts passions, to come to sexual science, while laughing an inner high-five.  I thought to tendencies: I ventured for excitement: I died to live as dying in sagacity: this evil intension, as pure physicality, to thrust for laughing (while running to sierras): that surge of wrongdoing, this man beside himself, that soul too alluring to captivate; but life in droves, as forbidden from islands, to close with perfect indecision: this itching nerve, this florid heart, this woman at devil’s creek; as earnest a vessel, while hidden a wound, to flee as congested, barfing his guts.  I’ll do this part, staring at this psychiatrist, as never a glance—this artful cadence, as strict authority, while a palpitation dictates distance: that singing pearl, as thrust for actions, to pause a taste at Taco Bell; indeed, those triglycerides, this man at edges, but a fury to a mulatto soul; that freedom key, as free to die, while love seemed an ache in minds: this sky-fly danger, that titillating, Agnes, this nun pruning for loving Keri—if but a scream, as distant from life, repeating, Marvin Gaye.  I love a swan, as tears to freedom, where mother loathes his soul; for thoughts were concrete, while actions were abstract, this coming to self to shame our mirrors—that steep reflection, as a troubled soul, to court with violence something to feel: as purely desensitized, while a fleece of emotions, this terrible, walking contradiction: that mawkish sentiment, those years at studies, this woman he had to pursue—as rabid an address, as sentenced to romanticism, while denoting a clinical breakage; as, notwithstanding, this belly of passions, this Chevy man, at torments to realize something was missed: that trip to France, that sketch of nudity, that axe at private heartaches: if but to shores, kicking sandy mud, fiddling with sea-turtles—that flying seagull, those kernels of grapes, this vignette recited perfectly—as pure romance, this idyllic soul, fleeing for flying into downcast’d epiphanies: those discerning eyes, as finding life, a child as symbolic fortresses.  I never could, to see those eyes, asking, Why you have destroyed our family: that terrific seed, that precocious seed, that mimic at a scarf tugging her throat; indeed, it’s quite graphic, where daughters love structure, as sons love father.  I end with Tina, this man turning back, but angry at self decoded as terror. 

Crimson River Cheer

I see us thrumming, as intricate cobwebs, or creative scars: those trenchant eyes, those muddy knees, our shearers trekking swamps: if but fractions, angered by love, snatched and tugged trespassing our brains: [this monster, at psychical dialogues, fueled by transgression].  I see us thrumming, our masks so palpable, our suitcase encased leviathans: that tender blue jay, that African red-hare, as afar so close undergoing exorcisms—to rupture deserts, alone, as aside a fountain, to claim this seasoned portion: our pertly lives; our petit infractions; this feeling as mental titanium: if but a fox, I’ll session by holes, this purpose as simple our favored estate: if but as humans, I’ll chase infinity, thriving accursed for breathing: or life as holy, this excruciating battle, our countenances set aglow.  (You cater banquets, and attend frustrations, laughing in agony—as neurotransmitters, while sparked a smile, where feelings contradict thoughts)—this steep disjunction, this miracle manifestation, this trickle as called through winds: that fire reaching, our hearts revved, this ferret at his wrists—although, a dream, those eye-sickle organs, those saxophone palms—to cringe, as clutching guts, thrust into devotion: our banjo hearts, at terrors fleeing wrongdoing, as witnesses that evil flourishes: those agonizing morals, as embedded as brow-scope, our telephones mixing wires: if but for war, than ablaze our trombone, but if love is crucial, [aflame our socio-essence]: that gait, that homely refusal, this tear at reaching for womanhood; as but a scar, or more a fortress, to have for hiding such power—that intimidating nun; this prowess for mutilations; to ruin a year at mere a glance: if but was sung, those harmonica eyes, that trumpet spin—to see for shadows, this man at tails, flipping for flying a frenzy at studies.  I’ve said little, searching for finding, a bit alone that central illusion—as courage-breads, nibbling sweet pecans, dipping for radiance this coffee plant; indeed, Love, this culture at game-play, angered that it rarely flourishes, while demonizing chastity: or essence bent, carving a jelly-tree, afflux a habit leering into mirrors: that shifting gaze, that inner leap, those hours to studying insanity—to come to surface, a calm treasure, where chambers reach for likeness…that grape in patches, that dainty militia, that star-apple sitting at attention—as, nevertheless, frazzled for fleeing, to come at conditions, where it feels good to live absence: our rumberry pies, our rubbery clouds, our cranberry skies: if but a swan, than sing your symphony, as father sips a dragonberry: if but a moon, than glisten upon earth, peeking for pulling potentialities…those walnut goals, seething for wrestling, that inner ape a tear grueling—as, notwithstanding, these turns of affairs, at length to realize authenticities: those glaring thoughts, as told for pumpkins, as, otherwise, that soul so close a drum-beat; but life is warfare, this culturing of swans, sipping a pinkpigeon.  We’re getting closer, as infused by fusions, living our stations: that fair religiosity, as anchors would sing, while adult-life is spent tangling with neuroses: our pineberry shame, thrust into academia, or thrust into psychiatry—to feel at plateaus, this reaming sensation, as feeling guilty that humans generate such magnificence; but this is life, as steeped in essence, to remember this feeling as Yahweh’s churn: at Jamaican rum, laughing with friendship, nibbling at existence: this inner legacy, as a fortress at battle, possessed by mauve shrubberies—those purple membranes, or orchid eyes, yanking for pulling a dream she fashioned: that secret screaming, those studies proving fortune, this life so cultic a passion—as seeking Zion, this stronghold fortress, while reaping science: to study as sought, while never for closure, where unsaid events were struck through deities; as never for asking, as ever for searching, this man becomes an inner donkey; so more to speaking, as informed in passing, our mental cerise clocks—as beaming envy, while purposed songbirds, at course voiced in ceilings.   

Last Prayer

I knew her closely, those velvet palms, our homemade chilly—that steep regret, as furious with shames, at large a craft needing structure—those bleeding brows, that jinxy texture, that shattered repentance—as glass pipes, as trash screaming, if but this harvest by rehabs—that fraught demeanor, those traits as explosive, that intransient mood-flame—where arks rage, as hands bleed—oh this friend those heart-thumps!  I’m lost a feeling, sipping as reaping, at measurements this psych: that treasured knowhow, those fleeting fractures, this spin if lights to deaths as resurrections: as could our minds, this flux in temperaments, while secrets run through fabrications: this tale told; that beige sunlight; this jasper infinity—where mothers ache, as tulips to dragons, as curses to souls—this human man, as an Irish soul, to link with passions this immutable séance.  I cave in silence, frantic with Sia, reading for vexing with Sun Tzu—this liver speaking, our deaths calling, our mothers to enterprises: if but to bleed, peering at grandmother, at flux this steep intestine—those chimes hexing, our fathers crawling, our Lexus low-for-gas abandoned to deserts.  It was liar-fever, this achy soul-beat, to soulquake those arms—where Love was panic’d, our lotus laughing, our mirrors whining—as torn for thrust’d, or frantic for caged, hearing as locks rebuke freedoms: our arcs destroyed, reaping pearly eyes, as cautious a thump leaping our futures…too compose as falling, at thoughts while bawling, those eleven years mourning brains...as told he died, as never our converse, to know with lights this steep hatred…for color kills, while antics brood, where it felt good to reject color.  I’m bold to live, fleeing for raptures, as running through steel cavities—that treasured swan, those treasured doves, as but a thought captured in another’s voice—where love is riches, while riches are agonies, as existential(s) prevents full-course-living.  I died to fly, as flew into chaos, where it felt good to perish—those heavenly dreams, that remorseful cygnet, that father so gray at liquor—if but adventure, as torn forever, those graves as fluent mortuaries—where aunty is velvet, if but to perish, while Peggy socializes infinities—that moon barking, this steep hatred, our classes as all but ex-slaves—to distance self, while effective our lies, to stare at wives keeping our secrets.  I cape for floating, this spy-craft treason, to redeem with deaths as laughing at traumas—while cold a glare, as war to spirits, to administer this line dividing knowers from fiddlers—that brave alliance, this Al Green fury, our Barry White tone-fairs—as broken while laughing, as laughing while seething, this person an overseer as rarely seen:—that trenchant psychologist, that wretched barrier, those psychiatrists as best this life would give.  I’m cold-warmness, as warm-coldness, this flux as abrasive—or more to tears, as lived where smiling, to course with life—this perfect personality, at wills to love, albeit, a desert bleeding Jesus’ palms.  I heard a voice, while leering at justice, to know for prophecy this apostolic conviction: our fathers watching, as bleeding insanity, to courage with approach to hear injustice—that violet petal, to puncture for crawling, this woman too far to ever reach; so hell to feigning, while hell to breathing, albeit, a fool for that kleptic leap—as, nevertheless, I stole a soul, as sick at silence, where love broke a séance about success: if but to breathe, this furious love, at a psych during private ours: that rich profanity, that tale we told Christ, our in-souls bleeding this last prayer.     (I know your laugh, as rarely a participant, to fuse for arts abused by structures; as false realities, as brooding absurdities, where arts plead for freedom: this frantic song, this woman dying, our mothers beyond that terror-dome; to courage with time, this wake as fretting, this woman as pure humanity; while wanting tenderness, if but those cries, at eyes, bleeding for falling raiding senses; where mother is good, as loved for badness, to excuse but sentenced to silver bars; that inner witch, that mental warlock, this curse for chasing pleading, Christ; indeed, to love, at aches, this treachery, to live as spoken a dream those artists).                                    

Rain Masks

Be there at pains, explaining famish, to morph a desert-oasis: our gravel elixirs, our permanent flux, this feeling by rivers—as seated a dungeon, laughing at sorrows, awakened by energies: our velvet ceilings, our battles with rain, such beauty in anchoring our language—this violet film, our 3D glasses, our in-soul’d daffodils.  I’m hesitant, Love: if but to fly, released of bestiality: this hectic cycle, warring leviathan, at cheers that esoteric glare: this hare running, this fox chasing, our squirrels leaping branches.  I used to love, as love was colorful, our bright-eyed acrylic souls—where gestures enchant, this fleeting movement, unless raffled to passions: relentless lure, or casual pash, this need for reaching—while sky-cut, at flux with trespass, an opened box: that clown fleeing, as abased with time, to tulip a field as rising.  I still love, pardoned by cultic eyes, chasing invisible butterflies—that ladybug watching, if sighted to purpose, as sorted a steep agony—those bluish scars, that sunrise daisy, this train for sights by rural travesties: that ache aflame, our sky-adventures, our days as entrenched in silence.  I read a feeling, too at cadence to passion, at internet pastime.  I felt a dream, as dreams are voiced, severed for crawling through soulquakes: our walking mirrors, our trenchant psychologies, to come through tragedy a bit lost: those seaplane thoughts; rapt’d in Vogue, explained to self as newness—that wavering essence, at closeness so tender, our lives visiting those churches—as children live, to want for moral fabric, or those ethics cemented in hemp: our casual longevities, our souls at detox, our pure-clay masks: if but to cherish, our country jeans, peering at father’s reflection: this inner psyche, as plural wings, affected for touched at silence: that empty room, at such activities, our running water—to bathe at aches, seated in shallow-depth, pondering our make-ups: as adrift at chimes, palming a firefly, at flame a second at realization: our glow-through nights, as days exchange harmonies, to fiddle with thoughts this deepened self—as lost that feeling, at returning to life, affected by purities those metal gates…exhilarating ashes, this flux through time, this dye by souls for newness: if but to life, to promise luxury, as spent eternally; but life is passion, this cementing of sensitivities, as to claim but satisfaction—where strengths fetter, as if but humanity, to cry with arms gripping frantically: that steep security, as raveled in bars, to come to essence speaking of passions: our facial cleansers; our denim jackets; our faces pointed towards that Narrow Path.  [It felt good to laugh, as those days no laughter, as we must confess]: that inner envelope, opened by strategies, desiring something we admire: those myriad voices; our spacial enchantments; such fury hushing for clarity.  I felt a novel idea, our pictures in fresco, our adventure immortalized—as fevered anxiety, or clashing tides, to frantic with life this tapestry.  I admired a curse, while revising a blessing, at cadence this inner swan: those legs running, that mind at capacities, our engines revved for sitting at stillness: our hybrid souls, clinging to ideals, to find that such are hard to knit perfectly—that casual storm, as knocking for kicking, to feel it knocking back: such gray purpose, to find but heat, lost at some melody: this chasing rain; those country trails; this orchard of fruits…to courage this lackness, while involved in steepness, to adventure as one a soul for raptures.  [Perception shatters, at wonders a light, at caves bathed in soot—that dream unraveled, as sentenced to oblivion, at curses laughing of old—that place at hearts, to hear that essence, to awaken sitting at stillness].       

Sad Poet: Wise Novice

I float a star, thinking deeply, attracted for fallen—those shimmering diamonds, that lengthy agony, that courage at midnight: our old feelings, our cadence wailing, this acacia membrane—as mother lives, such rabid insanity, at miracles forbidden his dreams—this wretched man, this academic man, this theologian—as time dwindles, our knighted rings, our warm but icy fires.  I float a scream, peering at nakedness, charmed by elation: those gloomy eyes, that nighted light, those jasper caves—scratching sheets, remembering sorrows, plagued by resilience: that captive soul, so mortal a scar, while wrenched by alternatives: this month to miseries, this ache to pleasures, our union too precious to seek your face: if but to bars, our metal mattresses, those features I encounter—as driven with ecstasies, or livid at treacheries, by curses blessed as wrestling oaken-cedar: this inner chest, as framed in histories, where momma disappeared: our dear predicament, spurning algebra, pitted for arriving while distant an inner kiss: this second to feelings, as churning emotions, where it felt lazy to utter, I love you: this frantic soul, so calm through needs, a tear so emphatic by silent expression: that mental psych; this leaking psychology; that remote therapist—as chiseled dreaming, our intimate webs, while purposed to throttle for distance.  I welkin a scar; I imagine a swan; I heard with time our wilderness: those jasmine-browns, while fiddling a flute, our symphonies beneath our traumas—this flippant ache, as battled for clearance, to seek for calmness those memories of rage: this deep perception, as speaking potential, to near a man that steadies imbalances: our woodblock portraits; our simplistic clarity; this love for such while seeking something complex: as silent noises, this monster at retreats, this impending battle by deserts.  Its non-existence, as non-for-pleasures, while at pleasures to sense a presence: those short showers, running for typing, gnawing buttered bread: his lazy ego, his dusky thoughts, our melodic swan; as, notwithstanding, such creative happenstance, realizing that most live for self: this type of Form, this lyrical ocean, our veils by purpose to deceive: to love by sights, to engage for rivers, while to unveil baby leviathan: this wretched curse, this man too serious, our standards chiseled away.  We seek for pride, happy to hear, I’m proud of you, at breezy earth full with emptiness: our inner deadlines, our fevers for persons, this radical closure provided by volts; herewith, our souls drift, seeking a mirror made better.  I float a star, leering at signatures, a bit crazed about calligraphy: our metaphoric; our censored pursuits; this wealth by sorrow by keeping composure: as lived a soul, so ancient at rites, purposed as pure advantage: that angry-eyed swan, so delicate but tough, at needs pleading for guarantees: this dread by lights, as practical living, this upshot for questioning knowledge—as vessels create, this steep existence, where most are chasing this inner epitome: those cagey arts, or expressive risqué, peeling with force our walnuts.  I sit alone, listening closer, becoming ghostly: our creeks as whispers, our science as limited, this feeling that humans are chasing more than facts: that burdensome arc, this ceiling, watching, or that four-dimensional mirror—as music begins, at silence so long, while to wonder for whom it plays: (this vault screaming, his mother dying, crawling for reaching but no one came).  I floret life, at desperate lusts, while forbidding self from bridges: this excellent vase, as fragile at arks, to sense with life this Tai Chi excursion: as dead but living, or living but dead, or at peace with life through a solemn discipline—where growth causes for inventory, as souls plummet abysses, while upsurge induces pleasantries—those volume eyes, as seated in analyses, while robbed of something intimate: this losing for winning, as winning for losing, while too much femininity speaks to compartments.  I must to smile, if but self-deception, while they participate at creating something they disdain: those guaranteed margins, our objectives askew, while some remain kind while jogging infancy—those inner apologies, where grays are instruments, for in reality, we result to black and white.   

Where Aches Begin: I See a Rose

When a loser wins, by incredible force, laughing for bawling into sorrows—as caged glory, inverted joy, this indication of ruins:     affected by dregs, seeping into mother, abandoned to flux-conceptions: our morning bacon, or red beans with rice, our evening ham-hocks.  We boil greens, flushing our temperaments, slicing a seven-up cake.  We help with insulin, piercing as living, playing, I-Declare-War—while unhinging lights, rattled for awakened, becoming this adult person.     [I’m years by memories, featured intimidations, listening, for at war those islands: that cyan rose, that yellow lightning, this burgundy-oaken-wand—where seeds sprout, our budding intelligence, our welkin-wilted-wrangling(s)—as trenchant filth, this sudden breakthrough, a bit cultic those eyes his brains].     It was life to live, as death to die, where lines became by glory: while soil bleeds, our hands to molehills, our idols dispensing mystery—to love as wretched, pleading for forgiveness, to rebuild with life reaping vengeance: that omic well, those cherries with teas, this uprooting wheezing—while cut to gristle, as metaphoric music, where one is besieged by pure phantoms—that glorious smile, those angel-soft cries, this feeling escaping its holster: to love cleverly, as running from self, a felt exhaustion with life: that pitch black phoenix; that sky-orange hawk: this sulfur by clouds dripping into existence—as lived a soul, addicted to apricots, belly to dirt kissing violence—where love was attraction, this encased feeling, while too mawkish to retrieve existence: that pink moon, as jutted into thunder, to thrust with life that trenchant heart: those top-stove steaks, smothered in gravy, served with Spanish rice: that angry jelly, by nectar rich grapes, our mornings greeted with beauty: this signal blinking, if but a time for courage, our silken souls up for review.     (I see us soaring, at wars with negligence, listening to inflated sighs—as livid or gracious, or gracious for livid, racing for chasing sky-purple: those inner training-wheels, as removed to focus, this trail of bike parts.  We trek a mime, peering at features, painted in tears—this glorious pardon, this field of cheetahs, this shamanic language: if but a second, to measure by minutes, this ghostly paradise—or feral a dream, as cursed a legacy, to seep for abysses crawling by clouds—this wretched silence, if but to perish, as lived cooking his philosophies: that trenchant Logician, that eloquent Academician, that told science as revealed in cultic rites—your harmonic eyes, that lute to lungs as wailing, those harps to essence at cadence those skies; at lions with caution, relaxing a caustic shrill, to forge with lights those welts by glory).     We seize as losing, while seized as winning, leering in private: that languishing voice; that wrenching mind; this person at heart those hurdles: to float while grounded, soaring through caves, at luxuries those grandiose feelings—as garnered emotions, those blue petals, this age of vanity: while steep at altruism, some version that vein, a river to souls as seldom selfish: this incredible person, that walking academy, that royal fever—as delicate cries, or rabid elation, or sitting in solace-sorrows: this mountain to shivers, that field to vacancies, or this mental labyrinth; where love is patient, as all encompassing, something appealing to Realists: that I-Us, as Us-I, fragmented but whole a sign to tetras.     [We could to love, sorting out debris, while barely at closure; or to have for melodies, this signal at dawn, where love cries as slowness at silence: this velvet pillow, those golden sheets, that turquoise temperament—as coursed through curses, while laughing our joys, with little to life as functions our fears: thereto, our realist souls, a bit to imaginations, reeling in sanity; or more to best friends, as never an interruption, fueled by dreams: those steep relations, embedded in intuitions, as carries our earth].     I pause, staring at dressers, melting into mahogany blues—as rich in downcast, fiddling to arise, occasioned as one where success scrapes his surface: those brilliant volts, that brilliant retraction, this felt sadness permeating our inner persons—where love becomes an expression, as chained to freedoms, where it will always caress such love.

“Bird Set Free”

I shout afar, at torn admiration, repeating, Clarence: our fetid brains, to die courage, and could not speak: this psych his blood-bank, as generous a soul, while cleaving for fallen this legacy: our daughters wailing, as living riches, while born this mother’s inner anchor.  I heard, Jennifer, I crawled through terrors, I died while blaming, Angela: if but to fly, as scudding, Isabella, to float with time appalled by Kathy.  It comes with grime, as sorting our alphabet, while pleased as seen a warrior: that culture to chains, our steep enslavement, to come through deaths a gas-chamber.  I sought for luxuries, as sentenced to believe, while rigid a vault leering at majesty: this liquid Whitney, that Palace Kate, this professor as never a cue—as never a blink.  [I saw a man, fiddling a torch, to burn a demon—as laughed while winded, as blurred lines, a cave in an Irish valley].  It comes with fury, this blanket lagoon, this quicksand river—where eagles rooster, as pigeons squirrel—this field as free, or livid a scar, to harm for souls, while feeling wholesome.  I’m dying, gorgeous, this man to veins, where it felt good to lose but sights: this outer exosphere; this morbid undergrowth; our subtle colors blended into steep sorrows.  It was kef to die, it was kef to live, and it was ecstasy to perish— this fragile soul, as strong a vessel, to court with life as destroying life: that ladder grieving, those lips too bold, at Nutrisse pleading mercy.   I smelt hair, as cared to caress, while Love died singing, It was chastity: our African albinos, this arm from shoulders, this welkin disposition—as sent by gods, as affirmed through gods, while all the more a terror by brains.  I could to live, seeking green eyes, or plagued this dimension reaching for hazel screams; but death to clarity, as clarity to death, seeking for grasping this English dress-core: our white appraisals; our white demarcations; this white address-course: if but to die, as laughed a mirror, to apologize while wreaking havoc.  [I sought so young, as sprung for broken, to envelope this price: as plaguing this Beauty Reporter, or running through our cafeteria, while at love so early this historian teacher].  We crawl as falling, peering at Cartier eyes, to find this disposition to love: those morbid letters, that inconsistency, this inability to articulate beauty.  It could to love: It could to mercy: but souls to essence as bleeding sincerity—that cold ice-tier, those wheels as omens, this clown as laughing by sadness—where fathers break, as broken a dream, sharing for wretched accepting deaths.  We treasure tactics, to give as receiving, where culprits dare to protest: this violent soul, as livid a laugh, to court for mercies while falling for love: that inner Daisy, our Marc Jacobs, to sear as dying electric to fatal ecstasy; where models roam, as steep an abrasion, to cut with time but shared, threshed asunder: those Europeans, those African surgeries, those arches as blessed dissolving liturgies: our cavelike palms, as lax’d a scream, to bite with passion as laughing at liquor.  I saw pumps, I felt ankles, and I kissed calves— as born to dungeons, while at love a second, to fire with justice as assailed for breathing—this mystic animal, our wrists to terrors, this voice for chasing admiring his own pledges: our boogie nights, those strobes blaring, our inner person marked for threshing(s)—where it was good to perish, as floored for rising, where Love admires by cryptic distance: our fashion quotes: our inner literature; this feeling as never-would-cries invite deaths: that motive driven, that woman’s passion, this craving for reaping while dejected that passion…if but to live, our elements by scars, this boisterous ocean: that inner lamp, those treasures to crimes, this laughter born of pure treachery—as lavish a curse, or morbid a scream, to sing while passion’d that death.                                            

Undergrowth as Under-groaning(s)

I fantasize; crimson night-glares, a grackle as an omen—or tears to griffins, our doorways as Babylon, this liquor escorting emotions.  I’m sickly savage, as managed a curse, at genetics our daughter’s brains: that inner silk, our grandmother’s storm, this hurt for losing—that trusted confidant, this welkin source, at cemeteries nailing handkerchiefs: hereto, his heart, our seldom cries, our countenances spewing venom—to live at illusions, pierced by psychs, at mercy to encourage his brains…those insecurities; that tale through grime; our ghetto palaces—as paradise-central, fleeing through agonies, to come to aches holding our, Love.  I’m lotus tears, at Asian literature, accustomed to an Asian heart-thresh: if but for living, or more to flying, this Jewish Kabala.  We dance in secret, our enchanting souls, to sip with purpose as feeling infinity: that steep abrasion, those morbid abysses, this thump a second into battle: our fist to furies, our dreams shackled, this warrior at hearts bleeding our fortresses; wherewith, this fire speaking, this electric cantaloupe, our souls to feelings a second that destroys—or more this mind, flickering as lamps, to encourage at seconds a masterpiece.  I’m deep to fantasies, this living synonym, this broken koan—as split for soreness, such by losses, to kiss as studied fearing intimacies: our hertz wicked, at so many years, to have hurt with feelings purported as realities: our therapeutics; our metaphysics; our rabid allusions: whereby, this intrepid force, to know but names, as to realize this enigmatic rollercoaster.  We live motivations: We die our Diaspora: We long for nuances found in something that is quite forbidden: if but to breathe, Douglass by signs, this color so embedded it becomes our first impression—as, too, a countenance, this hard-won energy, our years to dungeons reading frantically: that infant wiz; our daughters to anchors; this resistance as forming a tumor…but Love was exotic, this erotic animation, to courage with life gripping but eradicated: those crooning, cultic affairs, as steeply incarnated, at ease this second with total chaos—as found an hour later, debating those inflective gates, by urgency rushing for rising as Judah wars…this inner glen, our cryptic valleys, this want for Love while rigid a heart-hex: those burgundy slacks; that aqua-maroon hairstyle: this abstract attention afforded soul-textures; where Love would smile, as eyes glare conceit, to have for panic this man so gifted: to fiddle admiration, while slithering through politics, at core a woman forbidden by screams: that inner diamond; that hard-won configuration; our souls reaching for dying while feeling so vulnerable.  I’m thinking birthdates, as sentenced to living, if but to polish a daffodil—that mental expression, as visual dialogues, at hearts admiring this sculptress—as prayers broke gravel, where bars broke spirits, our puppets becoming puppeteers—our shatterproof resilience, afforded feyic genes, to scope with sadness this inner mannequin.  It was aches to love, as a demented poet, fleeing through quixotic terrain: that penchant windmill; this temblor heart-flute; our skies to padlocks—as teas for chi, or Taekwondo acrobatics, to fly as soaring bathed by Superwoman: as churns her death, our miraculous terrors, approaching prose as our wishing tarot.  Oh for poison, if but to pandas, sleeping for disciplined by Kung Fu: this other vessel, so delicate at life, as enchanting but foreign—that dreamy affection, as floral fantasies, consumed by something treacherous: this inner legitimacy, if but perfection, as isolated an island at complete absorption—our boundless waves, this underground volt, our stress to slaves as becoming chained survivors; therewith, those rhapsodic eyes, that melodious gait, that melancholic aura—to give honesty, as floored to embarrassments, a lyric as a voiceprint: our orgasmic love, so sung our Marshal Arts, at raptures this soul condemned fleeing our margins.  I’m so to fantasies, as livid a nightmare, as pure a flying hummingbird, [at tears our times are so ordained]: while overtaken, pierced by spirits, at arcs seeping into undergrowth: that violin-heart, those orchestra eyes, this languishing for weeping a tad bit elated.  

If But He Died for Nothing!

…as dreary our nightmares, so frightened to confess, while life gears deception: if but to panic, our swan legacy, those tears to shadows; to awaken screaming, at space a microscope, to phone lingering through sadness: this mortal bliss, at timed catastrophes, while morning yawns aggravation.  I’m told to live, rummaging metaphysics, peering at bright-eyed octopus—as livid whales, this drill of brackets, alive at luxurious jaguars: those hazel dreams, as once so electric, as it felt honorable to enter by cadence—this breath slipping, our parents flipping, this nonchalance that anything goes!  We’re told to die, if but by wings, this month our dearest purgatories: this psych threshing, this aunty to brains, our wants for perfect studied as muddy waters—where acts fling, this fish of screams, to have with purpose our pragmatic auras: those aqua eyes, or green innovations, to come to deaths lingering in sable gems…this woman at arcs, this vessel by darkness, this wave as to puncture for salvation: if but to live, akin to dramatics, our theater at such to perish our brooks.  I ache at love, to share a Magnum, this essence too clever for Cinderella: our Calypso travesties, at lies to sustain, this method in tyranny acting as if.  I google beavers, alarmed by apes, feeling at times as gorillas: that tier traipsing, this tapestry bawling, our textures bleeding this forest adventure; as never afloat, this vague sensation, at wonders this glorious confession: that telic bane, as chained to seasons, to love at loses fueled with fevers; while, nevertheless, this Bugatti engine, as scentless this pearly womb: our courage to deaths, at torn aphrodisiacs, to have by grace that subtle essence—where mother died, as livid a scar, our livers so gentle that magnetism.  I should for clarity, to wish as successful, this carpet bleeding its negligence: if but to live, as pure a nun, our raptures at divisions, soaring; to catch for hyenas, or drift an infant duck, at lagoons pitching a solid prophecy: that gray sun, that orange cloud, this woman at brains without clearance: our religiosity, to have this song, as murky a palm bleeding sincerity.  It could to gentleness; this vest ruptured in flesh, to excuse a season given its mutuality—that grave seething, our fathers wailing, to confess in private this whetstone encounter—as mother breathes, seated in electric chairs, our brains ruptured by energies: this test to souls, to soon forgive, as realizing, I died to destroy his soul; wherewith, this vicious exchange, this soul at secrets, our captures to seconds as clearing consciences.  (We’re told to fly, if but to expand, our swans plucked as finished); that line grieving, as inverted a dream, to pick for flowers aloft our essence: this pagan voice, as choice’d to persevere, reaming for broken wailing through meadows; this sylvan rapture, that adolescent response, this coppice agency.  [I feel an overseer; I die ambivalence; it comes a time to revoke those childish dealings]: if but to scream, as flooded a ditch, this crevice to miracles a phantom’s elation; indeed, to fevers, our doors rattling, this woman a wind directed to hearts; as born to die, at hells your love, to know with passion this feeling by loses: our casual tricycles, this inner racetrack, our bunnies as vicious vampires: this mother breathing, as alive his mirror, to come to grips at terrors this vision.  I’m told to succeed, despite our feral ghosts, while each turn diminishes bravery: those trepid therapists, that steep suggestion, this ontic survival; as flickering embers, or relaxing heartbeats, to thrum with vice those dahlia eyes; where love was cadence, this shallow ocean, to scream with treasures to alert another; indeed, to measurements, this orpine rose, that far-to-life spruce for brains: therewith, this fatal force, as never his soul, but ever his concentration: if but to live, as dying with grace, to admit at battles, She won that war; hitherto, this slight admission, while afforded a time to relinquish: those bold brains, those Sabbath eyes, this space in tomorrow as confronting our fears; whereat, is smaze, a broken chimney, a grandmother privy to hidden facts; our russet wines; our cheese with crackers; this lucent ability to ignore empathy.

Tear at Warriors

…about this life, Love, this tender jungle, this bundle of confusion—as cursed with breath, while blessed with animations, where plagues explore our continent: this face seething, our caves screaming, such by cygnets to explore brains: our crystal eggs, this prism by deaths, our potatoes with onions: if but those heart-prints, or miracle knells, to phantom as cleaving this orange moonlight.  We die, Love, shopping for groceries, this metal to boxes our souls in chains—where swans imbue lights, this prison advertising its blessings, where coyotes become tamed infants—to love with vengeance, those years to practicum, those months to internship.  I casual life, as actual delusions, while stressed by fairness applying to Harvard: our broken glass, those shards to brains, this graph outlining this terrier perception; to dwell as dead, while living as breath, to adventure come nightingales: this Versace outlook, our googling, Rihanna, our deaths to eyes wiggling through emotions: those anxious, Beyoncè(s); this illness as cursed by blessings; our years at terrors pleading our mechanics—this medical storm, those halls by justice, as opposite a brain cleaving to insanity—that vestibule of doctors, that table of clients, this agitated page-length report: our empires by truths; this Lauren agony; our cadence from Africa to France: as borne bleeding, this mucus flipping, our horrors explored through emails.  I activate Rome, this pleasant excursion, while flippant a scar concerning abrasions—our L’Oreal passions, to paint our Tao, while raiding for fleeing this internal desert: those markings forever, that Aveeno radiance, this loop in scars as reversing our inversions; whereat, are rings, this symbol by exclusivity, to come to lights pleading our sierras.  We could to sin, while convicted, aching in multiple directions—this face beaming, as screaming indemnity, where contrast behaviors swarm our castle: this vex teeming, our ex-factor mentalities, this bully in brains as chained to guillotines: if but to swim, laughing with swans, our seconds to courage imbued with tyrannies: that age perfect bronzer, that inner Wonder Woman, this vex as haunting craving for Naomi: as but inflictions, this radical ornament, gracious with agony garnering our rosy glow—that torrid barrier, as if it could live, where four share this eternal closure; therewith, such matrimony, to taste for dying, this well by Rebekah’s jar…if but to beauty, this gross affair, to come to life’s bridge-work—that feral attraction, as limited a session, to lose with honor explored as ransoms; while, nevertheless, this chasing by Maybelline(s), as mirrors conflict breaking peace…those tale trees, that Indian model, where Helen acts this part a bit deconstructed; indeed, to terrors, utilizing Miracle Gels, at clearance glossing upon life such European wax;—that ache weaving, our inner H2O, our Hydra Genius—where Love was vacant, as to terms within, such by error to become an inner terrorist…our seasoned alibis, as if death was avoided, where love would die a mutual exchange—that river grieving, as never this behavior, embarking by rites our Chance Chanel…those welkin allures, to have by deaths, this fleeting but lived paradigm…where love was feral, as wild an embrace, while encased in cocaine.  I’m told for silence, adrift a dozen faces, if but to imagine, Tyra’s pains: I’m held to consequences, at love but seconds, to have with panic this fair explosion: those picturesque cries, those statuesque eyes, those Grecian mannerisms—as sung to melodies, our time to perish, while at love melting into dementia: our true match, but a blemish with grime, or more this impossible dead-light oases…whereto, our self-defenses, as ruined with love, to come to aches nibbling ambrosia—this fair creature, our Opera Magazines, our inner Garnier—where passion explodes, as breaking into bones, our marrow repeating our alphabets—those vowel extensions, that mahogany queen, or more a curse seething through affairs.  I was told life, slapped for screaming, or familiar this return fleeing through Revelation: that cure bleeding; our Burberry cloths; this intelligence suggesting this one night sentence—where love was gentle, as called to battle, our warriors as women.      

Allure: Life is a Miracle

We watch stressors, embedded plural genetics, as features scatter normality: this fragile force, at collapses by twenty, if but two years prior—to speak such language, at anguish laughing, while privy an underground mentality: this Celtic Cross, those Danish poems, this field running into art-brains; where mother dances, while swans admire, such strengths this tiny miracle.  I’ve shattered thrice, those horrid episodes, those flimsy bar-caves—as built bleeding, punctured in Tijuana, at memories sipping Tequila—this vest rifting, at rafts soaring, this kayak extravaganza—that Dior culture, so appealing a dream, as watching that thread for others.  It caved his mind, those inner funerals, partaking of grandmother’s ashes—to rival messages, seated at a settee, our closets bursting with vengeance: that psych’s evaluation, that rabid sensation, this file at tyranny describing analyses: if but to franchises, this welkin enterprise, our hearts at rivers pleading our imaginations: that timid aggression, those rigid smoothies, our treasuries suffering social inadequacies: to courage for deaths, this vacancy screaming, at terrors to arrive at that chased adventure: those purple eyes, those jaguar paws, that ape’s glare; indeed, to thoughts, this vessel so enchanted, by arm’s-reach at chorus to gunfire.  I met with pash, as ahead by seems, while at glory riveting his brains: that membrane lioness, this wretched division, at tears climbing by ranks: this Gucci intellect, as Cartier fevers, at sudden a whiff of acceptance: our burgundy eyes, that meal of sardines, our noodles with Red Rooster; as trying to escape, this bar of frustrations, to meet with kindness a young minx: that sylphic sage, as alarmed studying Zen, to happen upon a manic countenance: our strange island, this rhinestone aggravation, our gems as thoughts afloat a cathedral; insomuch, to flourish, as laughing by suspicion, those dreams by koans: if but to arise, where life is without efforts, this ability to hold attentions a solid hour; before to perish, as losing zeal, as cagey an ache to ask for survival.  It was good that life, as a man fully dysfunctional, our armoires protecting shallow egos—this velvet dress, those tinkering rings, that partial bra—as but to live, a series of obsessions, fiddling pleasure as culture our psychoses: this steep penetration, as to witness cries, this feeling but a second in minds; that Buccellati succession, that fragile powerful brain, those Vhernier pieces of personality—as cut through time, our billionaire screams, this face so precious as touched with malice—to thrust a spear, those million dollar boots, this space in others reaping Messika.  I’m soon to deaths, churned as aggravated, sensing with time this luminous sphere: our Lagos logos, as terrified streams, to enter a trillion dollar museum—our wild suade, this assuaging force, at rabid insanity concerning monopoly: that outer spotlight, as every magazine, to have for fairytales this achy glamour.  I’m soon to life, this woman in suits, those heels piercing by sheer fire: that violet scarf, those dahlia eyes, our daughters jotting down sensations—as lived afar, to come so close, this acacia superstar—if but to breathe, this inhalation, as lungs empty science—our beanbag moments, sipping for living, this minor fender-bender; as partial to passions, enlove but driven, as reaching for laughing a shattered wine glass: those mahogany dreams, our cabinets bleeding, those seconds at showers—to have for purpose, this lot of vexations, reading a sestina—those long bangs, as shoulders to skies, while adrift our human condition…if but a sentence, to ache a heart, while pleading adventures…if but a scream, to induce a rocket, our para-existence; insomuch, this feyic beauty, this wellic brain-drum, as kettles resound for teas.  We live as outliers, while begotten a miracle, a bit too soldier our cultures: our Ralph Lauren, our Versace dreams, our Jewish inheritance—to focus silence, enough to reach, at terrible friction speaking algebra: our tragic vices, as vying for normality, to find in love an accepting ark: those arts colliding, our graphs blurring, our women by deaths as animal magnetism.

Living Our Social Institutions

Seeing sights softly, at winded frustrations, our wrists at convulsions—as seething chaos, or speaking legendaries, at terrors petting lions: those spidery thoughts, lingering for falling, appalled by legacies—as Cartier memories, or psychotic faces, fueled for laughing at wakes with ghosts: this field bleeding, our cotton fingers, as resorted to economic resources.  [I love this you, so distant a scar, while surfing private quarters].  I awake, screaming, therewith, a nudge, at tyrannies pleading forgiveness: this inner you, at secrets those sessions, to find with agonies our truest investments: to souls beaming, those weekend ecstasies, at livid matrimonies—this place bleeding, as a sentence to die, while pardoned this inner sanctum—as more confused, where realities clash, our mosaics denoted as self-delusion.  I heard love, this trapeze falling, while orchestrated a solid venture; this curse wailing, as seizing intestines, that countenance tormented—where breath is disordered, as passions flush orgasms, whereas, it felt good to disobey: this song at repeats, this woman as Caesar’s harlot, our dreams to perfect loyalties.  I chased for rising, to feel this feature, a man to rooms feeling akin to, Prince; indeed, our cranberries, those blueberry textures, that ruby red rose—at courses flooded, infused a scream, to want for it appealed to psychoses: that flower bleeding, those thorns digging, this shrubbery bearing witness; thereto, are rivers, this Nile bathing Ethiopians, our essence wounded with intentions—to die laughing, our martyrs seeking glory, this vest as strangled unto everlasting insanities.  [I hailed to see you, this fire flushing, to evolve as hating you: that miracle dysfunction, our worlds lost, typing for dreaming seething this illusion]; hereupon, sketching this image, where bodies are insecure—as vulnerability, or tender affections, choking for bawling while laughing, It hurts.  I saw Jamaica, as fleeing to Jerusalem, at science by mentals to Europe: our calypso liquids, our Dior dreams, this Versace suitcase—as tormented, sailing, to cry your aches, at pleasures to have lost such reality; this psychotic self, as fused to majesties, a socket sparking letters to your name.  Its cold a scream, leering at buttocks, while to imagine stretch-marks; to kiss each fever, afflux with passion, nibbling for biting while suckling blood.  Oh for warmth, as cold a vision, to tare with dying: this crowded loneliness, at furious sky-weather, to forage for failing while laughing at delusions—this miracle science, to float but dreams, while able to tap existence that mystery: those shivering palms, our charisma weaving, at whispers to imagine, Isaiah: this fixed mentality, while bathing in dung, to push for eating while rebuking saintliness: that picture cringing, as melting in flurries, at pulse to touch debating our essence.  I die this you, as never able to sin, while sinning, nonetheless—at frantic textures, this scene as livid, to expose with life this human feather—as remorse would scream, while active at infractions, to pretend with life that pain shall decrease.  Oh for passions, as laughing his mind, as oh for furious women—that Agnes Feminist, that colored Womanist’s, at remarks censoring those female Atheists—this life as incredible, to suffer such joys, while pleading our un-blemished institutions—while Naïve languishes, for wanting such seconds, to have for irony such maniac copulation; indeed, to shames, this inner theologian, this man years afore a mental Rake—to cut with precision, this woman at laughter, to grip for dying yanking at his aches.

It could to mercy, as living in sessions, to find with time our seasons to pass; as resorting to pleasures, this intense vixen, as pure a martyr debating our notions: if but a scream, as skin was gnawed, this flux of self, (our fluids at outbursts): that florid moon; that realized sun; our angst at bay while motions are monstrosities: that beige agony, that furious dream, our souls to psychotic women; that space he died, that vestibule she cried, our priests but humans gnawing at deaths.              

Psychic Wilderness

At wonders, that stupendous figure, those dreams inverted—that miracle life, those jaguar eyes, this message losing texture—as casual passion, to feel our essence, at loose tendencies: our liquor bleeding, our knees screaming, our throats soaring by wailing: if but to love, than dye us emotion, while feuding intestines, [as fueling agonies, where feedings become nausea].  I’m existential, a pragmatic fool, placed in something epistemic—those arcs seaward, our seafaring dreams, at treasures scraping cloud-boards.  It felt good to die, that trepid anguish, that trebled heartline—as surgeons cried, piecing valves, our bones painting portraits—as back to fawning, at love with pliers, our bolts resistant, [our hairs on edge, our sparrows morphing into seraphim(s)].  It felt good to live, racing yachts, dragged for buried that shore-tier—those rabid feelings, to give by hurting, aloof to becoming fixed—this dark dementia, as fetid with energies, as fettered to fevers—that brain left-bound, that hanger sitting still, our eyes pushing seances.  It felt passion to love, as receiving tissues, this spirit at admiration—to sing by laughing, to languish for flying, at furious flares lethargic.  I’d dye those nights, as arms were foreign, to feel this irrational self—as often a glance, to soar an island, at oxymoronic truths—that music, those cymbal eyes, as symbols running.  I’ll soon chase, as never sprinting, as close as back-hearts should permit: that beating upstream, that whisker shifting waves, that catfish waxing brilliantly—at laughing tortures, so for rated purple, peering at cyan dreams—this passion, as writing his life, while ignored for breathing.  (I knew us, those years at meditations, these winds to plummet his mirrors; but never at love, as love would die, so more to soul-mates—this liquid waiting, these tendons aching, his liver laughing—as torn for turquoise, at terrors mahogany, this trestle a symbol of our wailings: so why this death, so cold a picture, as captions read disasters—that failure to lie, while tears are sprinting, this muddy residue).  It was told to live, with little as guidance, this fiddling through meadows our indecisions; to un-laugh life, as unwound souls, a vowel as re-wounded.  I called furiously, to frantic a failure, where daughters would ravish forgiveness—this spider’s venom, as webbed his heart-traps, seated in a pit with snakes—that constant jazz, those blues screaming, our games as passing time—to envelope attributes, to see perfections, to ignore with heart-curves: that tugging constellation, those rabid seconds, this feeling so good to destroy us—as monetary flux, or forbidden dreams, while feeling perfect.                

Mental Magpies

We felt essence, this methodical bone, as lives sheared to grizzle: this pigeon watching, that tarantella’s neck, that dragon’s fire—as remote-controls, racing as Pac-Man, or an ambivalent desert-viper—to stress as kosher, alive a vibration, our waves moving bodies.  I awoke demons, such internal laughter, to remember as chaos something precious: this well bleeding, our verbs to chandeliers, our ambitions sawing at bars.  It takes insanity, to capture interests, while floored to rising behaviors: that elegant dream, so soft a current, our brains at, alleluia!  I cursed an element, this para-membrane, fluxed at sky-frenzies—to love as cherished, those forgiven kettles, laughing for bawling and crawling her essence; where panic soothes, as cutting tissue, our treasure-chests excavated…to perish gently, those eloquent clouds, this loquacious river [as heard her thoughts, somewhere his caves, searching for persons an empty room] this inner veneer, those marbles spinning, our rabid, psychotic jumping-jacks; insomuch, a scream, craving this presence, to want for dying as to relinquish love: that contra-soul, those contra-grains, as livid a miracle, (to relax with shame): our terrible tendencies, as torn ajar, at funeral feelings: that invoked island, those marshmallow sensations, to cut for laughing aside a mortuary; where flowers gather, as bearing witness, our silence spoken for by nature.  We ache a dream, riveted with ripples, our days for nights at gravity—this mixture weaving, our wounds welded, at terrors leaking essence; as born a thought, to become a feeling, this clutching by guts pleading mercy; whereat, lagoons, those geese coddling, as unraveled a fireball—to strike at cadence, that sudden explosion, at meadows a tier rebuilding its guts—to fever with justice, to crave for ecstasy, as arriving with eternity fixed to intentions: this raking sensation, at lives with contempt, to pardon in deaths a deceptive flare…those years to growing, a man to his mirror, a soul to theologies—where psychs are relevant, as pain is evident, this vessel a product of trauma—that casual affair, as so dismissive, our nonchalant investigations—to awaken laughing, while wiping tears, to coddle a straightjacket: this inner vest, while rocking gently, to place our brains against mirrors—those crying elephants, as so pink with chaos, our knees to carpet depicting an image—as died eternal, to cringe a feeling, while at sudden hatred: those inner scents, that broken room, this get out of jail fee; where mother breathes, as breeding a colony, this mental ant-lamp.  We tear in agony, loving afar, this animal behaving as sentenced; while labeled a monster, reading intentions, vying for authenticity—as a real human, so lovely this eagle, to come beneath those pinions—therewith, as semi-captured, while semi-religious, this semi-fire—as sheer reversal, this straightforward carnival, to have for clowns a reason to run: those morbid feelings, as pure elation, where it felt for love to confess: that tender mistake, as alert and cringing, to relax pitted in clammy intestines—that remarkable essence, as blessed for sinning, while sin became this error in self…that elf to screams, this mental condition, our genius becoming our scars—as laughing for falling, while clanging for ghostly, to enliven a tender aggravation; indeed, to patience, leering as torpedoes, barreling into heart-skies—this cagey aggression, to utter a sentence, as pure confrontation: those actions as wheezing, our reflexive feelings, that deadly kiss…as sights abroad, fleeing to Jamaica, as returning to essence a different soul.

 

[Its soothing agony, this blossom by soil, as sickle’d for threshed—that inner conference, that mental council, our tables so round—where life as grandmothers, to have died that sickness, while cursed to bleed adoring Jesus—as oh a convent, tugging at Gertrude, a bit congested with religious divisions—as charismatic, assuredly apostolic, cautious about St. Paul—a wilderness tear, our sky-pelicans, this terror-card at flights]. 

Our Hymns for Hums Afar Our Eyes

I imagine, Frida, sipping clouds, creating masterpieces—this symphony agony, as one so morbid, while relishing in human joys—this bliss chasing, as portals pausing mania, while literature becomes psychiatry: this mortal morsel, as mad science, each case as monumental.  We hailstorm life, behaving as monks, dwelling in our Torah; that inner passage, this cabbage of insecurities, our lavish anchors—as cut to grizzle, bleeding marrow, our fervent indwelling(s): this friend he loved, as something casual, those rumors about souls; as livid a star, our flannel alibis, our reasons for treachery—to have that voice, pleading insincerity, while angered by its reach: this nicotine patch, as never his soul, at tyranny wretched sparking a clove: that daughter’s hearing, as sightless with sights, to bungee this life: that cruel world, so cursed a blessing, while torn by dejections.  I love in anguish, to retreat with passion, as sentenced an inner centerpiece: this velvet vase; those violet eyes; this turquoise sorrow—as today’s wildflower, by tomorrow’s windowsill, to winnow an ancient feeling: that fevered amygdala, our shoebill tendencies, this flushing our souls with mimicries—if but to live, pestered by ants, at terrors he craved such treachery—that cemetery speaking, his mother a mirror, his father a legend—to come by habits, or mainstay agonies, that metaphorical cactus—where Love broke free, as dying to live family, where innocence was spent a dream: that fruit by arts, to imagine, Monet, at scribing pure glass: those closet skeletons, those dear-life tentacles, our bones as mental wounds—indebted to persons, as abandoned to reach it, while lines blur at times.  I’m ancient a thought, this Socratic essence, our Plato Christianities—at furies this web, to imagine such fetching, atop a loft petting a unicorn: those jasper wines, our ashtrays toppling, that portrait it mentioned; indeed, to love, as never he died, this miracle a series of prep-schools—as angry with father, yearning for mud-pies, at tares too clean reaching for filthiness—this space as cleaving, while at wars awash’d, our accidents akin to faiths.  We speak a language, while to languish love, our yarn spawned from insights—this intuition, those dwelling cramps, our intestines altered by chimes—if but to have, as adrift such chaos, our agonizing stage-life.  I see a swan, this majesty singing, as rare a sentence: that statuesque crown, those palatial cries, this ability to exist as silence.  (I thought a song, as tugging his features, to imagine, We’ll exist again!)  We sketch images, amazed by Rembrandt, our apostolic focus—as charismatic, this motion through souls, to find our mirrors are harboring truths—as sights are perceptions, where perceptions precede sights, while sights ought to precede perceptions: this tale for souls, this inner statuette, our illusions symbolic henna—as cooing softly, our doves a glacier afar, while undergoing frustrations; this breeze of undergrowth, those shards as poetry, our beavers knitting frantically—as torn his mind, to shift an instance, our lions flipping by wings—as Judah’s majesty, this destiny craving, as when life was unfair.  I’m elbows to wisdom, knees to Yahweh, and brains to mystic yogis—those harrowing elements, as frazzled inside, at present, his stomach grumbling: those loud insistences, this moonlight weight, that zombielike trance; as mother reads, this reaching through pages, caressing a Lipton tea; insomuch, his mind, extracting those habits, where silent behavior thrums our brains: if but to fly, as swans deconstruct, our hearts a sudden thump: this damp mystery, our luminous blackdamp, our hymns for hums afar our eyes.          

Love by Trying Ladders

We live secrecies, as lowly souls, while cleaving to myriad joys—our electricity, that passage to hearts, to target its very origin: this wild feast, pouring through tendons, pausing to taste grass—this blue blade fever, that cricket to singing, those California doves.  Our thoughts are weedy, this acceptance of mirrors, as cautious about analyses: this picture of roses, this media frenzy, our Chinese articles concerning Africans: such annihilation, our ashes forming portraits, our cemeteries so crowded…this infant at breasts; our dragonfly obsessions; our cryptic idols.  We telescope madness, obliterate confessions, and magnify beauty: that global magazine, our tetras existence, this bending person according to preferences—our Yurman ideals, our yardman sanctuaries, our yeasts as quite ominous.  I argued a mirror, at wars with Cèline, at cadence with sheer reflection—this person raving, as born by seeking, to arrive at inner vaults: this place screaming, for closeness requires distance, as by contrasts we realize emotions as sentiments—our Rolex dreams, as controlling perceptions, to arrive so close to retrieving hearts: our Maybelline happiness, so perfect a fixture, a tear smearing our mascara.  I cultured Tiffany, collapsing by pictures, inquiring about an ageless model: that clarity by oceans, to flourish our curse, considered too poor for clearance—that wealth of poverty, those vows to floggings, our nuns so vehemently stern—as science divulges, this steep resistance, as becoming intimate our handicap—where essence builds, as binging upon bestiality, as transgression becomes a cycle: our infinite swans; our cygnet admirations; this woman by Africa a queen: our rivers to Julia, our vicarious existence, our laughter by watching Stewie.  It comes to greatness, this utilitarian excursion, while warring against deontological habits—our praise of duty, our imperative behaviors, our night-crawling reflections—insistent upon imageries, resistant to criticisms, unless, emphatic about change: our fragile egos, as obliterated by discipline, while still subject to impetuous responses: this space running, as fleeing to itself, debating our aftermath—that place we knew, as charged with hertz, while to lose it derives from denying self—this rattling cage, our bolts unlinked, our ambitions unhatched.  I admired Chloè, this voluptuous artifact, as found traveling through psyches—our inner sailboats, to feel with others, while rarely to experience that surge—where days are weeks, as weeks are months, while aging has decided its affliction: this feeling ruptures, while reading about Grace Vanpatten, so young a genius fleeing through artistries—our glorious cry, seeping inwardly, adjusted to dying in increments—to have force, this song of doves, while inhibited by internal laws—as choosing lives, our roles to admire, where said roles deflate with time—as desiring nuances, as said our Love, where we embark upon ceramics.  It was Pomellato, this feeling through rockets, while resorting to prose: this daughter’s life, our intimate warfare, this killing deriving from truths; insomuch, as drillings, while never reality, where an entire generation caters to caprice.  I’ll die this lot, somewhat a lonely man, before days glisten where I apologize for being killed: indeed, so graphic; indeed, so tragic; indeed, we must resist afflicting ourselves—where time has granted,—this pilgrim of souls, this incantation—as distorted violence, this hatred of self, this placemat moved at random—while love appears, this face at cries, to relish in pure communion: that touching of woes, those intimate truths, those shifts through alleys mid-sentence; as fluxing through temperaments, or seizing opportunities, while rinsing our pallets of syrups—those bold valleys, as living for self, at terrors, to realize unsurpassable altruism.                                      

People Become Miracles

I saw shaded tones; this variance woman; as maniacally brilliant.  I saw childhood, disguised in sophistications, waning for growing aloft a miracle.  I heard desires, as lying about statures, while craving romantic desolation—this furious flower, at political warfare, a bit weary waxing a fever: those petit goosebumps, that grasshopper’s fence, as musical notes strike a chill—to perish emotion, to flourish emotion, stressed for living where living becomes tyrannical.  I heard proclivities; I laughed a lie; this rabbit’s pit fluxing omissions—as born to divulge, this inner tendency, at once considered psychopathic—that achy ability, to maneuver while thinking, as immediately those labels.  I felt images, by inner riverbanks, by mental estuaries—this resistant algae, buffing with rubber, that silky residue.  I saw pain, featured in majesty, to grip by hooks our skies: that morbid passing; those wretched elations; this passive obsession.  (Our days to groaning, this in-room wind, our inability to speak it: as inrush waves, affixed to proximity, while sketching a dream—as giving percentages, our moons about our verandas, our credenzas atop our roofs: those wooden cabinets, as reflexive brains, fiddling our narrations—those seeping energies, as lived a dream, as no-one fully fathoms: that steep dejection, followed with treasures, to cycle as floating a soul to its wings;—as tuxedo galas, our blacktie emotions, that backless Dior—those immutable trinkets, those dangling diamonds, that utterance by charisma—those haunting smiles, that haunted neckline, this pace at speaking as removed from authenticities).  We perish to live, as something gray, to wander through omissions:—our sagas for gripping, to confess every infraction, as opposed to those horrid discoveries—as finding love, as reaping disaster, while arranged somewhere to run: as, indeed, this plight admitted, if time becomes a glacier, where most affairs are short-lived; as, notwithstanding, this mansion of lies, as zooming photos, those hours at photo-shops—as picture perfect, while never a blemish, this radical disaster.  We whirlpool life, scribbling our insignias, suspended at that last lie: [or more to love, as becoming vulnerable, to announce those unpleasant sagas—where Love receives us, as battling to release us, our stitches becoming our shelters]: that inner loveseat; that diary settee; our ottomans but a scream: as spirits heard, to twist and tease, to tattoo tears:—this reaching luxury, as respecting graces, where secrets reveal character: our chantress soul, our earshot honesties, our midday circuits.  (I know that heart, as to have lived that heart, to confess that hearts grow in flurries—our beige carpet, to sing this life, our summit symbols—as seeds sprout, and blossoms bloom, where in actuality we confide in kind hearts—that deep stream, that welkin fortune, this swan swimming through salutations: as born to silence, while squiggling for mother, that simmering voice at intestines—where love was precious, at tears by fevers, at opera our membranes: while coldness fell, our timber sparkling, our exposure surpassing our eyesight—as excited labor, agog our hearts, to gambol our elations: that feeling steep, that weeping willow, this bishop’s gravity: if but to live, as dying rebirths, at flux a fist filled with symbols).                                        

Flipping for Flying: Picture-graph

We’re oriented, our treble drums, this angst so colored his brains; this second to realms, as occasioned by life, at wings flipping for flying; that inner tumbler, that mental coupe, our anguish pictured as elation—this voice cleaving, as something blankly, at arts chorused as sentenced: that a.m. movie, our lives in cinemas, our coffee a smidgen sweet.  I met a daughter, so alive to gambits, so steep a torn garment—those fluid charms, as watching, head tucked, at seconds so fragile; that fretted style, as concerned with Gucci, peering at Dior jewelry—those burgundy moons, as left his soul, tugging by an orange sun—this feared horizon, as breathless our heart-wakes, a pigeon by his lagoon.  I saw eyes, colored in sable truths, accustomed to keeping secrets.  I felt aches, this life so decorated, albeit, perfect, a family of addicts: this whistle calling, this Coach briefcase, our brains a lawyer’s lounge.  I imagine readings, through reach, grime, and city-fires, where truths are altered by tender disguise—that vigilant caretaker, those vigilant members, those vigilant extensions—as crazed this life, comparing perfections, realizing this plighted mother: those porcelain roses, as sweetness by kisses, our freezers seeping into hearts—that beige altar, that flowing mane, such as curls too precious for non-color—this maze screaming, our arts to miseries, this voice as pure concentration: that infinite swan, those infinite songs, at cravings peering at blurred lines—as mother dances, oblivious of yesteryears, at seconds to erasing a series of infractions—this place in brains, our torn delusions, this privilege we live to exist: our cautious selves, so driven a scar, at plural infatuations—as bring to life, our magazine fantasies, a vest of souls pleading sanity—as cried our nights, this desert crocodile, our knees as alligators; as, nevertheless, tugged for torn, our innate instincts: our wingless guts, flipping for flying, at tyrannies seeking clearance—as never our sun, our jasmine stars, where it was good to suffer—that space in brains, as laughed our adversaries, to come through punishments a tear closer to Spirit.  I saw tendencies, even a replica, while roses wilted: tomorrow’s agony; our seas as shipless; our dreams as pressed by fierceness—as sung her life, our existence paralleled, this phantom our genes aside those embers—whereas, it felt good to deceive, while up-surging emerged, to witness a silent curse—as steep stimulation, to receive as given, fleeing from mud to clear waters: this sudden vigilance, as never that soul, for life refuses obedience—those innovations, as sought to sing, this liturgy by existence: that caged bird, as meant to soar, as fleeing to college—or more a seed, concerned fully, as living to fix our empty souls—as incumbent madness, plus, emotional blackmail, indeed, a soul as deprived of living—but never this sanction, as perfect is home, while all others are diluted.  Those eyes will see, while others drift in silence, as those eyes grow livid: this country of vampires; this wilderness of leaches; our sanities responding to chaos—as living that person, sung for sought, as sheer vexation—those rubies annunciating, those rhinestones emphatic, our calculations pointing at manners by hell; but more to sightless, as felt her dream, to give but enough to subjugate—but souls are detours, especially, ours, for kingdoms spread our brains—those witty, Mestizos, that inner compass, this want for excellent perception—as we must confess, blindness is sheer hell, while others relish in false dimensions: this casual appeal, as broken a scream, flavored through sheer deception: those rolling blackouts; those confused statements; our years to listening!—if but for cleansings, as never a solemn sentence, to adjust, enacting, repudiating tendencies: that life as brilliance, those cages as mental, this picture-graph distorted.                                       

Sad Tones

I sparked a clove, reading names in Hawaiian, fiddling irritability.  I paced, a soul at his guts, our sullen dispositions; this force by currents, this psychical warfare, as altered by miracles.  I thought about Jazz, this time in allergies, our rapture codified by soulprints—this person above, such tacit chatter, this dragonfly shadow.  I grabbed a feeling, as it became this soul, pouring pints as toiletries: this sober land, accustomed to deference, while yielding to inner horrors: our para-brains, as desert-souls, this ritualized movie our lives—as repeating footprints, our casual picnics, watching as clouds move by: this chasing second, to realize laughter, while cogitating photo-glimpses.  I know a mirror, this facial-print, unable to sketch it in acrylics: this soul on Mars, devoid of spacecrafts, returning by rescue.  I count teabags, while boiling raspberries, again, to spark another clove: “Are you alright”; this soothing sound; as met with silence: for webs are different, especially, for introverts, this casual gas-furnace—where unspoken eyes, speak familiarity, this dream that one can heal essence: that miracle voice, while flickering a lighter, abandoned to this cycle of feelings.  I thought about sugar—this concrete element, while kindling an abstract phantom: our daughter’s soul, flying by ether, alive, pondering this sad clown.  I lost respect, as once so perfect, where pride was preparing a catastrophe: that humble algae; that flippant heart-quake; or more this person too advanced to even speak spirituality.  We conquer for seconds, pausing for another clove, our weekends at sipping silence: to move with time, our buttered popcorn—with cocoa this unlikely mixture: our symbioses, or rapture’d oases, such as seconds becoming cherished memories; where partnership loves, as supportive friendship, or something unexplained by mortals.  I await a shift, as this too becomes ritualized, whereas, this day becomes proffered as newness: those similar sights; our Jobian prose; this feeling searching by differences.  I’m watching frequencies, admiring freedoms, to membrance this spider assembled neatly.  I, nevertheless, feel sullen, a dragon to his life, a man to his song; where essence is slanted, changed by mimicry skies, where ambivalence becomes this cycle: by telic concentration, to become that feeling, as we alert to avoiding that feeling—this cooing pigeon; or that silent ladybug; our palms cupping caterpillars—as somewhere in Missouri, a mere lad, too far afield: or sitting in Belgium, this yearly fantasy, as streaming our miracles.                               

Tigers Are Resting

…such as life, our genealogies, our shoebill amygdalas:—this riveting thought, as perished its claim, afforded our chaotic minds:—this compass-sensory, as afflictive by moments, to detonate with precision:—our cyan joys, absconding by hearts, effected by mere a countenance.  We duel this light, braiding our tusks, a thimble to our passions: this jasmine vista, those eyes peering through mud, our knees to sickles digging frantically; where, notwithstanding, those mandolin bones, we churn by emptiness: our rifted tissues, as karnac with loss, to sudden upon apostolic eyes—or disappearance, our puce wines, whining through silence—as vulnerability, to show our deaths, while seized by life: this wicked dream, so close but vinegar, or aroused giving time-capsule joys: this skiing urge, our helium voices, those paragliding sights—as pushed to live, those mental bookcases, this chase through valley-caves: our mystic daughters; our passionate mothers; such by Tibetan graces.  (It was good to feel, albeit, deluded: this soul stands indebted.  It was fear to love, as coming unraveled, leering at landscape eyes:—our tender outbursts, as seasoned falderal, or magic upwelling affectation:—this kind passion, as livid those hearts, accustomed to sand-river brains:—that old armchair, aside a million dollar account, beside a billion dollar woman…this rare respect, as given to graces, while terrible souls flourish; but less to rain, as eclectic this fusion, falling through exiled eyes:—our seventy years, or our Jubilees, where debt becomes a friend’s eraser: that casual pain, as feeling joy, to abbreviate our melancholia)…by latent emotion, sinking for treasures, our pearly diving gear…as love would breathe, that silent dragoness—those gourmet grasshoppers.  Our music with life, by nomadic souls, pierced by rhino affections: that day in time, as seconds rage glory, to scream, Serendipity!—while winning spins, for losing wins, while complete a section at hearts: such para-psychology, where fires are afoot, rising by Jupiter’s Illusion—as Neptune soars, those Taurus eyes, feeling for screaming this Pisces.  We become leopards, if unlucky a storm, or through moral a trusted legend: that blue-whale-passion; that infant us: such miracle communion!                            

Laughing Mirrors

…as cursed a nightmare, fully infatuated, if but to taste ambrosia: this florid matrimony, this heinous mother, our scars to dreams—as inferno palaces, or mansion bride-ware, while torn staring at majesty—this woman coming, a man’s delight, to picture as perfect this affable creature—those legs to science, that warmth to blindness, as kissed for efforts bleeding insanity.  I cursed lioness, so superficial his thoughts, at mother with sheer vengeance…this inner methodical, this puzzled chameleon, our tetras acrobatics—where father soars, as lived that nature, our flesh sentenced to abrasions—this constant scratching, this trickle of blood, this welt six inches into brains—where mother arose, this pearl of roses, our cousin to crème suffrage.  I panic to love, for love is lethal, this revolving ceiling; as cursed by churches, involved in melodies, this woman so gentle her terrors.  We knew a name, this late night fire, embroidered in our daughters’ eyes—this Jesus cult, fleeing the FBI, to arise seated before tribunals: this frigid man, as solid with chaos, if but strengthened by psychiatry: this vivid cultists, as mirrored his pantomime, to effusions bleeding insanity—this bread melted, or toasted with butter, to flux through traumas playing monopoly; where mania sings, as left to deserts, this jaguar nurtured by rabbits.  I must to sing, as infused a dream, this room sudden a tsunami—this loquacious pillow, our ceilings arriving, this floorboard laughing—as gripping brains, peering at naked flesh, to touch as bodies refusing deliverance: our song to whales, as clave his agony, this woman wanting but refusing lights: that beige carpet, this integral stain, this blatant recruitment—as theories to souls, or planted troubles, this woman screaming in ecstasy refusing to settle.  I loved a curse, scratching his left ear, so embedded as to forfeit his last climax: that miracle essence, as blessing a flower, this energy so to obliterating doubts: that fine coma, those morbid yelps, this woman all-night at destroying innocence: if but to breed, as at love with pliers, to curse for streaming at tears to love: this miracle to die with, this innocence as heaven sent, this ravaging of brains.  I chose to love, where love was vacant, to sense that Love was loving in vain—this steep excursion, as never before, to die a minute as tugging our chains—that charm welting, those arms melting, this fix to desiring a life at literature—where perfect are words, as delivered a curse, to become enamored sipping prune juice.  It had to die, for it had to live, this wealth but still this immunization: that familiar bent, as truths to science: we peter out on familiar turfs; but love is genius, that fatal turn, to amuse with passion thrusting for deaths: if but to sing, as songs were sung, this Tao seeping into mesmerisms—that chaotic priest, those gloomy psychs, this method as cursed seeping into cadence—where love is essence, this immortal feeling, as stripped of hidden gifts: if but to passions, to enliven our barriers, to confess: I admire ownership!                    

Walking into Rivers

I trekked miles, decorated in memories, seasoned in plural faces: this frantic arc, filled your charms, at tension to witness some element of mercies—as casual tugging, this inner mis-fitting, our daughters seated at oblivion—that vast valley, those wavy blossoms, our winds communicable—as pigeons frolic, by acacia tyranny, where sap bundles into multiple visions: such elegant graces, such believable features, such effusion shattered by vanity.  We tour by silence, sipping symbols, peering at inscrutability—as easily sealed, or given to ironies, utilized as satire for wailing eyes: such grave injustice, as never a friend, while laughing he died sophistication—this web for tyrants, this seeping head-cave, our pattern designed in bloody oases—to voice his mother, or to inhale his father, our coffee stirred in bones—to harness his life, our wives debating sincerity, at once a bit testy concerning young flamingoes—this attic curse, this garret torture, as one grapples with innocent beauty: this flipping of mattresses, this collar smudged, our scents blended as body oils seep into wafting odors.  I’ve lied his life, this humble warrior, at intestines running for love: this endless vine, at tulip petals, designed by rosy wings—as fleeing yesteryears, this permanent congestion, our traffic hours to pure contemplation: that 405s, that 55n, this excursion to Atlantis—those burgundy highlights, those midnight heels, that particular vein that left calve: to venture his life, as never a dream, remote to love but far that agony—as built to perish, as living his island, to come to literature waving a saw: those brown spaceships, at flux his brains, that augury sky-chisel—to voice insanity, as at love with ironies, to arrive knitting soliloquies: our silhouettes, as falling into justice, our melic heart-brains—this mother sketchy, as rebuking challenge, to come to belief this vein pushing infallibility—that cry as obstinate, those ribs inverting, our heaving sporadic lungs—as kissed a poetess, at love so gently, to soar as naught those wings by glory: this lavish body, those fevered features, this gait repudiating ownership—as men plummet, aroused through dungeons, so curious eyes that distinguish tyranny—that inner cry, as liquid dreams, to awaken reaching that lonely room: our webs to shadows; our shadows to alignments; our alignments to freedoms harvested: that inner rooster, at fascination this rabid bobcat, as two morph arising as one phoenix.  I could to die her, as to keep this paired-sanity, while speeding life giving what I exude into literature: this vest toppling, our hearts to concrete, our minds to abstract analogies: if but for purpose, to utter this life, while mailed to this immutable self: that morbid architect, as orchestra eyes, this masquerade fable—to touch by napes, our existential exile, so many fragments as loquacious signs—to have that love, as warned of losing such love, to want for purpose this radical infusion—that broken clock, as cemented at noon, this sprouting of magnets…where angst becomes rivers, seated in pool-skies, inverted a scream—to wail evermore, as cried a delicate light, where love bent for perfect that disappearance: this pitch black fluorescence, as neon projections, while ethnic a dream scouring through Europe—Our English waffles, our crèmes with ice, our terrifying objection to neglecting existence: our chestnut trails, our eyelashes fraught with dusts, our dusky skies—as living motifs, this familiar oak tree, this pond so often our impressions—where mothers vanish, while daughters stream by torch, as fathers split into halves debating this paradox: as never this love, while ever this love, as never such sound reaching sky-caprices.             

Segue to Confessions

I showed courage, so young as vandals, seeping into addictions; this rigid definition, as illegal courts restrictions, our years to living through our rearview—this heinous canine, our brains upon edges, this cliff so gorgeous its attractions—while velvet our arts, or jasper our thoughts, sipping for tipping into images.  I saw ecstasy, this yacht bleeding, this friction to bodies as dying our liquids: if but to avenge, as livid our curse, while sung those glories upon caves—that inner two-piece, such aesthetic thighs, such esthetic buttocks—that rich waist, those shimmering arms, those legs for racing as leaping hurdles—where patience simmers, at wakes our brains, this composing by personal eulogies: that blonde vixen, those adorned toes, our noses so steep our mountain-sky…this space, as troubling converse, a line dictating behavior—or pills for feelings, while fleeing mirrors, as disgusted that once-upon-a-feeling.  I heard sweetness, unaware of origin, to awaken to humanness [as sails our hearts, this manikin perfection, this gala soul—those filthy brilliant images, that Cinderella dress, this monster courting beauty—as gorgeous a beast, such levity as holiness, our trips flying above an inner Vatican: this vatic essence, that tragic moon, as holding every increment of history: our casual nonchalance, as permanent dispositions, laughing for writhing through wombs: so young a villain, this steep richness, to fathom ahead of witnessing actions: to know for motives, to address roots, to session thirty minutes of passion: this steep affliction, as cut for screaming, or screaming for ruined, while at affects this changing of latitudes: to rinse frantically, our scales to drains, our flesh bathed in affections—as living forever, as ever this second, to curse for wailing pleading interests—those beige movies, this black at white, that glorious Caucasian actress—our lotic Monroe(s), our terrifying women warriors, this need to unleash an Amazon—as craved a feeling, to arrive a thought, while bleeding treachery to hurdle passed disgraces: this thetic heart-pressure, that outer dissertation, this woman his brains as feeling insecure: if but to live, as but to avenge—that morning headache…where passion becomes cuffs, while cuffs are cherished—those jaguar eyes: insomuch, a dream, as more this scar, so confessed as lusting for nuns—this holy catastrophe, as lifelong abandonment, so cold to warmth abashed for seduction—as desires flurry, our graves laughing, to have frittered away what he intended for intimate access: this terrible soul, or this courageous man, while steeped in secrets sliding through snow-forests].  I had a crush, as racing forward, to become by sky-terrors: this reign in souls, this purgatorial, while rich our Father’s literature: those violet eyes; those aqua eyes; those sable-mane eyes: or tears to rivers, as tragic seas, to cut with forces while astray her island—our waters to fall, those christened by sacrifice, our warm hells knitting but one favor—as cordial sullenness, or sullen melancholia, by malaise to have outlived prophets—this flute inverted, this outward cello, our guitars breeding our Blues—where masters mourn, as our apprentices relish, so far as intestines reach for Zen: this cryptic ache, those cryptic sighs, this cryptic distance—as tugging its cords, while proud to confess—that one saw utter dysfunction and became a psychiatrist—this cinema life, those bleeding knees, this twist through life afforded three confessions—or more to tyrannies, as accustomed to languishing, this leaping between bipolar one and bipolar two—as never confessed, but felt through guts, while hypomanics maintain a modicum of guidance—whereas, our seas, as flickering manics, to aid his life a fist full of risperidone—those cold trimmers, that warm tremor, this inner chemistry flayed in tapestries—as dipping his soul, flushed in churches, scrambling to seize this segment of what our souls give: those golden antiques, this mental comfort, that obliteration of doubtful proclivities—at love with life, at sights with love, to freedom for flying accustomed three drums—our souls to reincarnations! 

Chalice Our Hearts

I streamline catastrophes, this leading aura, as casual our heroine sins—to mention with nuance, scratching eczema, floored through florescent tears—this inner poltergeist, our morbid phantoms, this wealth incarcerated in resistance: that gorgeous tenor, that bass-cave texture, our cravings reaching for disasters: if but to fly, sipping puce-wines, at tender sessions this addict mother; where faces are flushed, while bones are swollen, at sudden a sneeze adventure: our hectic scratching, this inner tingle, that phoenix intoxicated with lithium—as dreamt a scar, to membrance those thighs, as cried for missing her womb: our cagey gyrations, our lazy orgasms, this place in flesh as melting—where northerners mourn, as invested in risperidone, our manic sexual sessions—this voice she loved, as steeped in depression, to forsake this hypomanic.  I’m dreams to tears, scratching unto blood, to trickle into a series of treacheries: that inner grandpa, this reflexive grandma, our ways to craving, Beyoncè—or more to vexation, aborted but living, this inner excavation—to die with glory, as to live this story, while Malcolm avenges misdirection.  It seems this way, to adventure this chance, while at love respecting distance: those morbid shadows, our actress vessels, while menacing through ironic situations: our plural sensations, as thrusting blindly, to come to arts while vanish’d this womb: this steep inflection, our climax skies, this face as captured centered in membranes.  I’ve loved for dying, while tortured for living, at fatal influences: this wretched heartbeat, those ceilings falling, this want for children: if but this woman, as perfect a scar, to come to that lethal agreement: where doves wail, as sealed in ecstasy, this mythical elation—those sullen cries, that welkin torture, our Siena adventures—where mother arises, at bent through chimes, our in-room weathers: that raining mirror, that crystal fan, those voices raging for destruction—as lived a current, this ghostly mystic, while to lead for dying if but to re-adventure.  I’m cold a failing, pausing at Taco Bell, this hankering for beef burritos: if but to relish, in torn vacancies, to arrive as jutting through sexual dalliance: this magnificent vessel, as more a friend, while at love dying revenges: that casual anger, as floored with sessions, this aggression becoming our masters—in much disagreement, this soft spoken snake, as ever this want for utter carnage—as pure mistakenly, while craving to die, if but to fleet through detriments.  I love for falling, as craving for singing, this turn of terns peering at catastrophes: our welkin rituals, as welkin deaths, to laugh at sinister advantages: this itchy flesh, as turning for singing, while embraced a sudden adventure: that cautious eye, as inverted deeply, by seconds ravished by strangers—where mother laughs, as solemn a tear, to remember that this is our child.  I must retreat, this wealth of psychiatry, where too much offends our audience: that perfect person, as never an inclination, while seared through a closet’s guillotine: that ancient feeling, that drilling through piracies, this hankering for pains—where Love is brilliant, as too much sex, to come to terms dying our resurrection: this soft person, as needing direction, where we want for total uprising: if but to die, while steep in flesh, where it felt good to love—this wretched center, this dejected rug, our faces to slime as feeling elation.  I told for deaths, as at love this vessel, to see with purpose this florid escalation: our hypertension, this bipolar maniac, our sexual cadence spent with sacrifices: that choking of necks, that pulling of arms, this slam in hearts as shutting doors—to avenge with grace, that session of tenderness, this remote island as more than warm breasts.   [I love what we streamed, as more this resurrection, to find with time this need to accept catastrophes: for life was good, as love was rare, where two could have given more].