We
die love, at terrible passions, laughing, sipping wine with shrimp. I knew a name, afire our chaos, to climax in
vibrations—at corners flipping, this wagon of restraints, where it was for games. I chess a soul, this flagon three quarters,
our memories to sentence bars—as scarred a mystic, or that precious life, our
daughters sifting through melodies. I
know a name, but never to propane, this web fraught that spider; this loyal
fool, angered with treacheries, where said flame deduces chains: that feral
queen; our gas to stations; this box so empty your presence: while sipping
puce, our beige visions, at rest but a segment; as evolved a monster, so cold
this pleasure, as never so gripped his majesty.
[We die love, wrapped in wires, to morph as beast returning to humans:
this bleeding clove; our trefoils speaking tongues; our music dreading fires:
as torn by actions, or without to die, this curse where it feels good to
laugh. I ache a swan, this flower I
didn’t see, where justice has played pretend: this cord-griffin, that snake
aflame, this portrait as sex is but our weapon; as mother died, as father
lived, where both are torn asunder—this light streaking, our cadence to
seconds, this psych a tear but heavy: to float his life, reeling through
Malibu, at remorse those pilgrim’s insanity: that jasmine anklet, those pearly
roses, that fragrance as in-skinned his flesh; where granny muses, this
grandfather clock, a tear to soil planting infinity]. We fly this vex, as remitted deeply, at sol
this hex as our passions seep. I courage
to listen, while alone a vessel, to kiss with fire this empty armoire: those
furious glass-plates, as furnace to souls, where said mystic cringes: this
sight of wolves, to know dragon brains, to flex as wounded afore leviathan;
where father adorns—this castle with dreads, to flux through lightning while
gripping thunder—that ache her life, that core our daughters, that purity our
siblings. I can’t confess, as burdened with
death, while confessing, broken with promise: that revving engine, that brain’s
transmission, those Asians to enter on his behalf—or Mexican fevers, to explode
Mary, as particles simmer into essence—those ravished Africans, that German academic, that Irish soul—to die our
actions, as infused our dreams, spinning through Latin America: if but to die,
this Grecian orientation, while uplifted through sorrow our Jewish
inheritance—those bold mystics, as fleeing into Kabala, our red threads to
Rebecca: this casual fool, as lived eternity, that blinking eye our mother’s
fingers; to curse her essence, as bought with prayers, to furnish this psych’s
quarters. [I’m at love, this swanic
membership, our Family Fitness; as
destined to revive, those tiles that died, where resurrection induces a fleet
of ghosts: our actions grieving; our moments vanished; this feeling that all
has perished; indeed, to currents, at breath this essence, to miss that sudden
volt; but more reality, as we must evolve, while stricken to these remote
islands; that drastic remorse, while seeking redemption, where souls
died—herewith, a scar, to revive through wounds, a bit afraid where pain is
absent].
