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).
