…as cursed a nightmare, fully infatuated,
if but to taste ambrosia: this florid matrimony, this heinous mother, our scars
to dreams—as inferno palaces, or mansion bride-ware, while torn staring at
majesty—this woman coming, a man’s
delight, to picture as perfect this affable creature—those legs to science,
that warmth to blindness, as kissed for efforts bleeding insanity. I cursed lioness, so superficial his
thoughts, at mother with sheer vengeance…this inner methodical, this puzzled
chameleon, our tetras acrobatics—where father soars, as lived that nature, our
flesh sentenced to abrasions—this constant scratching, this trickle of blood,
this welt six inches into brains—where mother arose, this pearl of roses, our
cousin to crème suffrage. I panic to
love, for love is lethal, this revolving ceiling; as cursed by churches,
involved in melodies, this woman so gentle her terrors. We knew a name, this late night fire,
embroidered in our daughters’ eyes—this Jesus cult, fleeing the FBI, to arise
seated before tribunals: this frigid man, as solid with chaos, if but
strengthened by psychiatry: this vivid cultists, as mirrored his pantomime, to
effusions bleeding insanity—this bread melted, or toasted with butter, to flux
through traumas playing monopoly; where mania sings, as left to deserts, this
jaguar nurtured by rabbits. I must to
sing, as infused a dream, this room sudden a tsunami—this loquacious pillow,
our ceilings arriving, this floorboard laughing—as gripping brains, peering at
naked flesh, to touch as bodies refusing deliverance: our song to whales, as
clave his agony, this woman wanting but refusing lights: that beige carpet,
this integral stain, this blatant recruitment—as theories to souls, or planted
troubles, this woman screaming in ecstasy refusing to settle. I loved a curse, scratching his left ear, so
embedded as to forfeit his last climax: that miracle essence, as blessing a
flower, this energy so to obliterating doubts: that fine coma, those morbid
yelps, this woman all-night at destroying innocence: if but to breed, as at
love with pliers, to curse for streaming at tears to love: this miracle to die
with, this innocence as heaven sent, this ravaging of brains. I chose to love, where love was vacant, to
sense that Love was loving in vain—this steep excursion, as never before, to
die a minute as tugging our chains—that charm welting, those arms melting, this
fix to desiring a life at literature—where perfect are words, as delivered a
curse, to become enamored sipping prune juice.
It had to die, for it had to live, this wealth but still this
immunization: that familiar bent, as truths to science: we peter out on
familiar turfs; but love is genius, that fatal turn, to amuse with passion
thrusting for deaths: if but to sing, as songs were sung, this Tao seeping into
mesmerisms—that chaotic priest, those gloomy psychs, this method as cursed
seeping into cadence—where love is essence, this immortal feeling, as stripped
of hidden gifts: if but to passions, to enliven our barriers, to confess: I admire ownership!
