This lethal love, as caves a grave
infusion, to minx for dying this love: that casual air, those emphatic cries,
our arms reaching but missing—as ever a tear, distorted a lie, as craving more
this malady. I died to see us, while
possessed a demon, this phantom
screaming at morals: that tall failure, as more an infant, to emerge sipping
grape juice; this liquor explosion, as tempting onlookers, while charged this immortal song: our welkin hyper(s), as
contagious vipers, our dragons to perish cordially: those sculpted legs,
cemented by crafted ankles, this spin chasing its winds: if but to wombs, those
chaotic attics, those muscles gripping his brains. I’ll shift, as maintaining decency, to speak at
a woman’s brains: that achy whetstone, as a gracious host, this season by
communion—as told to live, where grays are infinite, while cuddled a sore as
screaming. I love passion, this mythical
dove, our regression to Jordan: this endless cadence, to touch another
definition, while streaming as before truths: that fetid feeling, for strengths
are designated, while we require exclusivities: this wake of souls, immersed in
mirrors, to find reflection seated in an abandoned room: those strobe-lights,
that floor built essence, this touch with life as pure dejection: those morbid
cries, those excellent breasts, those porcelain knees—as broken a curse, to
live aftermath, a tear touchy concerning apricots—our blouse, as nailed to
fixtures, this symbol of our first kiss.
I laugh, as bent towards romance, a tare turned to Chinese food; as but
a segment, sipping spirulina, a text away from popping an energy pill: if but
to soar, this fabrication, spinning for writing at attention to guidelines:
those rich lyrics, that evocative vixen, this churn praising prophetic
poses. It comes to cruising, this line
as mortal, pausing at Black Angus: those church answers, this scratching of
scalps, that feeling through Agnes. I
crave to feel, as dying this intimacy, to run by chance this ocean-disaster:
that nameless whale, as aside our ship, this vessel fraught by pirates—as soon
an island, those wild excursions, our seeds as never a name. I’m feeling shattered, peering at pure
addiction, this travesty as outliving its essence: that prime poetess, that
ecstatic actress, those irregular models—to touch where it bleeds, these nails
immortalized, our seconds to destroying our innocence—as breaking points, this
feeling of taint, to emerge upon a glorious fantasy: those ships through
Greece, that beautiful black diamond, or elastic that width those European
dreams—where life is Brazilian, or Danish a scream, while German thighs break
his leverage. I relish honeydews, as
afar a terrible plight, where love beckons as performing through charms—that
achy mind-turn, those hellish sky-burns, this rug as filthy as inner habits—to
cut with ease, as sleeves grieve, where tomorrow awakens this distant flower:
to unfold grains, or tulip-reigns, where our minds must shift with currents:
those terrible pillars, as chilled upon sulfur, while immersed within brains:
that treacherous glory, as joyous pains, to come to terms wrestling our violin
basses. I’m bent a scar, enlove but withdrawn, at Texas laughing our lusts:
that built to parishes, those nuns to jewelry, this spin vexing his
frustration—to become at terrors, our vacuums bleeding, our seconds
perishable—where love stands instigated, while souls regress a notch, to arise
filled by Cleopatra: that tug for releases, at bestial aggression, to realize
I’ll let go to live love.
