We live secrecies, as lowly souls, while
cleaving to myriad joys—our electricity, that passage to hearts, to target its
very origin: this wild feast, pouring through tendons, pausing to taste
grass—this blue blade fever, that cricket to singing, those California
doves. Our thoughts are weedy, this
acceptance of mirrors, as cautious about analyses: this picture of roses, this
media frenzy, our Chinese articles concerning Africans: such annihilation, our
ashes forming portraits, our cemeteries so crowded…this infant at breasts; our
dragonfly obsessions; our cryptic idols.
We telescope madness, obliterate confessions, and magnify beauty: that
global magazine, our tetras existence, this bending person according to
preferences—our Yurman ideals, our yardman sanctuaries, our yeasts as quite
ominous. I argued a mirror, at wars with
Cèline, at cadence with sheer reflection—this person raving, as born by
seeking, to arrive at inner vaults: this place screaming, for closeness
requires distance, as by contrasts we realize emotions as sentiments—our Rolex
dreams, as controlling perceptions, to arrive so close to retrieving hearts: our
Maybelline happiness, so perfect a fixture, a tear smearing our mascara. I cultured Tiffany, collapsing by pictures,
inquiring about an ageless model: that clarity by oceans, to flourish our
curse, considered too poor for clearance—that wealth of poverty, those vows to
floggings, our nuns so vehemently stern—as science divulges, this steep
resistance, as becoming intimate our handicap—where essence builds, as binging
upon bestiality, as transgression becomes a cycle: our infinite swans; our
cygnet admirations; this woman by Africa a queen: our rivers to Julia, our
vicarious existence, our laughter by watching Stewie. It comes to greatness, this utilitarian
excursion, while warring against deontological habits—our praise of duty, our imperative behaviors, our night-crawling reflections—insistent upon
imageries, resistant to criticisms, unless, emphatic
about change: our fragile egos, as obliterated by discipline, while still
subject to impetuous responses: this space running, as fleeing to itself,
debating our aftermath—that place we knew, as charged with hertz, while to lose
it derives from denying self—this rattling cage, our bolts unlinked, our ambitions
unhatched. I admired Chloè, this
voluptuous artifact, as found traveling through psyches—our inner sailboats, to
feel with others, while rarely to experience that surge—where days are weeks,
as weeks are months, while aging has decided its affliction: this feeling
ruptures, while reading about Grace Vanpatten, so young a genius fleeing
through artistries—our glorious cry, seeping inwardly, adjusted to dying in
increments—to have force, this song of doves, while inhibited by internal laws—as
choosing lives, our roles to admire, where said roles deflate with time—as
desiring nuances, as said our Love, where we embark upon ceramics. It was Pomellato, this feeling through
rockets, while resorting to prose: this daughter’s life, our intimate warfare,
this killing deriving from truths; insomuch,
as drillings, while never reality, where an entire generation caters to
caprice. I’ll die this lot, somewhat a
lonely man, before days glisten where I apologize for being killed: indeed, so
graphic; indeed, so tragic; indeed, we must resist afflicting ourselves—where
time has granted,—this pilgrim of souls, this incantation—as distorted
violence, this hatred of self, this placemat moved at random—while love
appears, this face at cries, to relish in pure communion: that touching of
woes, those intimate truths, those
shifts through alleys mid-sentence; as fluxing through temperaments, or seizing
opportunities, while rinsing our pallets of syrups—those bold valleys, as
living for self, at terrors, to realize unsurpassable altruism.
