Our Hymns for Hums Afar Our Eyes

I imagine, Frida, sipping clouds, creating masterpieces—this symphony agony, as one so morbid, while relishing in human joys—this bliss chasing, as portals pausing mania, while literature becomes psychiatry: this mortal morsel, as mad science, each case as monumental.  We hailstorm life, behaving as monks, dwelling in our Torah; that inner passage, this cabbage of insecurities, our lavish anchors—as cut to grizzle, bleeding marrow, our fervent indwelling(s): this friend he loved, as something casual, those rumors about souls; as livid a star, our flannel alibis, our reasons for treachery—to have that voice, pleading insincerity, while angered by its reach: this nicotine patch, as never his soul, at tyranny wretched sparking a clove: that daughter’s hearing, as sightless with sights, to bungee this life: that cruel world, so cursed a blessing, while torn by dejections.  I love in anguish, to retreat with passion, as sentenced an inner centerpiece: this velvet vase; those violet eyes; this turquoise sorrow—as today’s wildflower, by tomorrow’s windowsill, to winnow an ancient feeling: that fevered amygdala, our shoebill tendencies, this flushing our souls with mimicries—if but to live, pestered by ants, at terrors he craved such treachery—that cemetery speaking, his mother a mirror, his father a legend—to come by habits, or mainstay agonies, that metaphorical cactus—where Love broke free, as dying to live family, where innocence was spent a dream: that fruit by arts, to imagine, Monet, at scribing pure glass: those closet skeletons, those dear-life tentacles, our bones as mental wounds—indebted to persons, as abandoned to reach it, while lines blur at times.  I’m ancient a thought, this Socratic essence, our Plato Christianities—at furies this web, to imagine such fetching, atop a loft petting a unicorn: those jasper wines, our ashtrays toppling, that portrait it mentioned; indeed, to love, as never he died, this miracle a series of prep-schools—as angry with father, yearning for mud-pies, at tares too clean reaching for filthiness—this space as cleaving, while at wars awash’d, our accidents akin to faiths.  We speak a language, while to languish love, our yarn spawned from insights—this intuition, those dwelling cramps, our intestines altered by chimes—if but to have, as adrift such chaos, our agonizing stage-life.  I see a swan, this majesty singing, as rare a sentence: that statuesque crown, those palatial cries, this ability to exist as silence.  (I thought a song, as tugging his features, to imagine, We’ll exist again!)  We sketch images, amazed by Rembrandt, our apostolic focus—as charismatic, this motion through souls, to find our mirrors are harboring truths—as sights are perceptions, where perceptions precede sights, while sights ought to precede perceptions: this tale for souls, this inner statuette, our illusions symbolic henna—as cooing softly, our doves a glacier afar, while undergoing frustrations; this breeze of undergrowth, those shards as poetry, our beavers knitting frantically—as torn his mind, to shift an instance, our lions flipping by wings—as Judah’s majesty, this destiny craving, as when life was unfair.  I’m elbows to wisdom, knees to Yahweh, and brains to mystic yogis—those harrowing elements, as frazzled inside, at present, his stomach grumbling: those loud insistences, this moonlight weight, that zombielike trance; as mother reads, this reaching through pages, caressing a Lipton tea; insomuch, his mind, extracting those habits, where silent behavior thrums our brains: if but to fly, as swans deconstruct, our hearts a sudden thump: this damp mystery, our luminous blackdamp, our hymns for hums afar our eyes.