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.
