I
conjure trauma, our mothers turmoil, Arlissa’s magazine—this Vogue enchantress,
effused and bleeding,
grieved
and screaming, at arcs begging redemption—this ill-gotten karma, those
generations, our blood mingled in muddy brooks:
I
met infinity, this tiny fly-fruit, our magnificent love—as courage our
daughters, fleeing for returns, to picture an unattractive fire. [I love illusion, this perfect vessel, as
never a moment to enrapture: that bipolar seize; that psychotic ease; this
surface as but delusions; where wire merges, our Hispanic roses, this gardenia
fleeing pruning; that forest rune, through vibrant molehills, to kettle for
nourishments: as cold to warmth, or warmth to coldness, this vex our parents
daisies].
It
could to gentleness, a psych as confidant, this lady enlove a catastrophe: to
argue with veins, at chains a curse, a tear romantic with promises. [I died enchantment, infused with mania, at
years with vengeance: that accordion screaming; that piano wailing; our
daughters fretted with facts—those bold pyramids, residing in domains, to dream
as one awakened through fantasies: that river-father; that candent mother; this
fury as dissolved in rescues]. I lambent
a scar, resolved in effusions, a tare angered with insistence—as miracle-planets,
this psych a scream, as dreamt her client would escape. [Its crevice penchants, as wistful cadence,
our eyes at sudden to water: that person streaming, as invoking curses, to
bless with essence that fervent cygnet: our inner parents, that prison of cages,
this fret as born cleaving to mother’s wrists; to cut at fuses, adrift a
feeling, to kill with passions a series of demons—that tale cry, as girls
enraptured, to greet with pigments those colorful ghosts]. We pardon ignorance, as only so far, this
bruise assaulting our intellects; where sons flurry,
as
drained immortals,
this
vest bleeding engulfed by oceans: as, nevertheless, this flaunt for agonies, an
abrasive concerning feelings—to dance with fevers, as inclined with islands,
this freezer bending for collapsing into pagan valves.
I
could to panic [where love is gray] this vehicle rebuilding our engines: that
furious beauty, as aflame a castle, too at ease with dying: this languishing
voice; our morning scars; our doleful
and discolored perceptions]. {Soul-frets exhaust, as whetstones to bones,
or depressive wildflowers: that discomfited life, or that comfortable cycle,
where something lingers in destruction—as searching signs, wherewith, are
anchors, while cleaving to something failing: indeed, our fragments, or
existential exiles, to push our pressures towards doubts}. I thought in fables, this masquerade, at
once to damask a villain: that skull of snakes, as Medusa’s ancestor—that rabid
orchestra—as mincing passions, those segments to lights, our florescent
sorrows; where love is turquoise, as jasmine is orange, those symbols to
craniums as grieving infinity—that man his hate, as pictured his throne, at
ease with agreements; but this is life, this fury of jewelries, that woman
exclaiming, Maestro.
I
love an ache, this terrible feeling, at once, this marvelous majesty: that
contradiction, as screwing his nuggets, while, albeit, she felt a scar {as
terrible elation, or rabid sanity, at cliffs purported for violent calmness:
this arc without energy; this song without lyrics; this swan as giving life to
corpses: that terrific insanity; those colorless autumns; this fuse lacking
currents—if but to exude, this angst of ancestors, to witness this fusion of
particles:
those
black nut meadows; those chestnut eyelashes; that odorless fragrance—where
mother senses deaths, our welts to calamities, this burden as reaching our
intestines}.
