We’re tensing friction, eating chicken
salad, a tear as a rose—that glorious swan, that fetching mother, our
territories at war: my brilliant aunt, our Peggy pillar, this theme in Alpha—as
Bill drills southern-bound, or flexing for treasures, this policed nightmare—as
casual love: I wish them life: while
fretted nearly abused: this method to caine, our canine teeth, this fury our
daughters as becoming humans. I love a
dream, this marriage by five kids, as infused with yoga: if but accordions, as
featured a scar, to envision such travesties: this mythic mystic, accustomed
his brains, at rivers bathing in tetras.
I could to climb, as dead a vessel, to measure with time this immutable
psych; but hell to passions, this analytical death, where measures ensue as
merits: our achy nights, this mother breathing, our love as up-rifted
debates—where sentence is self, to admonish those secrets, at this terrifying
brook. I knew distrust, to settle upon a
seed, at terrors this turn of sacrifices: those little destructions, as blasted
his brains, to fuse as one a tear normal: this gray adventure, that up-the-hall,
or more a moment explaining gravity: that large cadence, where hell adventures,
our grandmothers speaking calmly. It
kills his heart, to know such beauty, as desperate to behave with ugliness: our
grandfather’s maladies; my mother’s addictions; our psychs bleeding this
fortress. (We die forever, as kneading
arrivals, to kef a sequence adrift through chimes: that livid father, at
bruises laughing, while listening to pure dung;
or more an angel, while desiring a sphinx, to exchange a soul for fires:
that passionate minx, those brilliant
binoculars, this place as knitting this you—to
die as clever, soft about secrecies, so sad to witness this actress. It could to pass, as given legacies, to
render a happy feeling: those old pipes, this liquor breath, this measure our
mothers that inheritance—where love is vexed, as tested each second, to come to
pleasures that night at luxuries: this tested vixen, our German loyalties, this
Jewish fixation—where tears are tulips or daisy enchantments, to use those
indiscriminate words—as such a disaster, leering at pure glory, if but to
perish before causing harm). I,
therefore, confess, this lingering notion, where hell becomes this sharing by
slaves: that rich incandescence, this belly dancing, our fractures engaged in
skinny limbs; as perished his nights, to hear a harmful thought, our age
dictating our diligence. It could to
die, as amused to live, while laughing at sheer affections: those inner
blossoms, this bosom of terrors, our clashes afar a nation as sitting
stillness; where fantasies immerge, as freaks peek curtains, while at love a
totally abstract convention: our shorn logistics, this requirement for Ethos, our notions but feeling derived
from inclinations: this inner misprint, as alarmed to breathe, while vexed our
touches seem so distant: that outer release, as foreign our beats, seeping for
falling arriving at mysticism. I’ll soon
arrive, this vest up-surging its essence, where it felt good to be possessed—or
more by hells, as Dante’s inferno, to dedicate its wrong song; in truths, we
cherish, holding to life, while curious that fiery stream—as built to battle,
this childhood affection, our fathers free-basing. I remember those eyes, as more those
gestures, while super self-consciously; but deaths to feeling, as more to
actions, where blood trickles into blue oceans: this pirate affair, to lose
what he died for, while others adore that cadence. I cry to live, as dying to resurrect,
affected through devotions: this Mary empire, our Jesus cults, this music as
freedoms blurry—to come to measurements, this elegant gardenia, I’ll prune if loyalty dictates clarinets—that
fragile heart-sect, this Hebrew bleeding, our territories affectionate with
plural resurrections—where mother brandishes weapons, as thrust through gates,
while father remains wounded—this fleet of love, this love as cringing, to accept
no matter those temptations. I’m
thinking, as trying for manhood, this adventure cut sore by irregular
interactions: that woman clawing, those dreams unraveling, our women tugged
asunder—to cry deaths, while pleading love, as cut afar this paradigm.
