I’d die
for us, lost but screaming, to inter portals—as crossed with fevers, at love
with ecstasy, tender those glamour thighs—as laughed his brains, fretted by
body speech, alive for falling, this grimace of ghosts. I thought, Texas, this furious woman, a tear
too curvaceous. I thought, England, this
skinny dream, at crevices reaching heart-flutes: this penchant sadness, as
escaped its dungeon, our psychs peering at pure dementia: if but his lies, at
graves this thump, to want for laughs this immortal siren: our clave forbidden,
our wails as driven, this ambition to re-experience our trauma. [I love feelings, as destroyed by feelings,
as resurrecting through feelings: this rabid contrast, this inner thesis, our
dissertation writhing with wings—to curry red sauce, aflame this broiled
chicken, at lengths forbade’n this sipping of pure crème: our eyes laughing,
this flexible woman, to reach her ribs—as crying perfection, to want to die, if
but to escape such heinous pleasures—this laugh as coarse, this flavor as
passion, this taste as liquorish—our vein-ambitions, our cores to sunbeams, our
love as hectic. I saw a flower; I saw
broken but fixed; I saw struggle bursting through bubbles: I saw psychotic; I
saw a lover; I saw but future wired to deaths—indeed, to meetings, to love this
life, while cagey that affection: to see her laughing, while angry as hell, to
court for dying our fatal climax. Our
cypress sap, sipping for failing, while alive at success: this drastic paradox,
to lose while winning, to elaborate to grandparents: this love achy, this tree
collapsing, those swords rotating. We
could to die, as lived our children, while at passion’s unbelief: those torrid
dreams, this morbid reality, our cuts forgiven—as reaching into selves, to
collaborate with villains, as prone to assist our resurrections: that casual
depletion, those eyes at deaths, that feeling as remarkable; hereto, as never a
word, to dry deserts of glory, while rinsing heaven’s image: that bold warfare,
those cold heaters, this ocean refusing its ripples—this rivet of vexes, this
hex immutable, our children too far as incredible; but life was vicious, this
viscous membrane, our love as laughing—to cut with fury, this line as livid, to
embark against those hands of infuriation.
I’m cold to boxes, at foxes giggling, while all for dead racing through
red lights—that angry laugher, as brought to womb, to climax laughing art’s
fury—this whet fever, as welted aches, to wilt while flying afraid to look
backwards; hereto, this skinny outcome, or this curvaceous nightmare, at
clutches those nails bleeding our memories; to flux through feelings, as cried
his life, this terrible person as queen; indeed, to laugh, for gods are
addicted, while Zeus becomes this warrior afflicted: that laugh craving, that
woman raving, our pelvis bones clashing at every thrust. I confided in, Jesus: I confessed
unbelievable(s): I awoke to witness Love seated at our infatuation: that rabid
thump; those frequent radiances; this woman at wine to prove a point—oh for
sickness, as laughs our psychs, while proving irrefutable nuances—that beige
rug, that jasper ceiling, those maroon sea-ships—as terror to Love, as hearts
to Love, while afraid he may snap. I
feel it spinning, this unstoppable force, our cheeks swollen with friction—that
tired tongue, that broken throat, our fixations bleeding our realities—to
invest harmonies, while cleaving to vexations, to laugh as broken vomiting gin:
this fury of persons, as warm to cognac, while laughing at confidence: this
bold excursion, this limited Lamborghini, this Ferrari infraction—where Love
saw it grieving, to laugh with passion, while thrown for tossed begging
insanity: at flux his life, at waves our wives, this poet a bit that space of
lunacy—to want for womb, this cut to brains, to hear for names dying their
utterance: this beautiful unheard; this voice our secret; this woman as worthy
but silenced—as cutting cloths, this fire as remote, this hex as courted for
falling into hell-storms.
