I saw shaded tones; this variance woman;
as maniacally brilliant. I saw childhood,
disguised in sophistications, waning for growing aloft a miracle. I heard desires, as lying about statures,
while craving romantic desolation—this furious flower, at political warfare, a
bit weary waxing a fever: those petit goosebumps, that grasshopper’s fence, as
musical notes strike a chill—to perish emotion, to flourish emotion, stressed
for living where living becomes tyrannical.
I heard proclivities; I laughed a lie; this rabbit’s pit fluxing omissions—as
born to divulge, this inner tendency, at once considered psychopathic—that achy
ability, to maneuver while thinking, as immediately those labels. I felt images, by inner riverbanks, by mental
estuaries—this resistant algae, buffing with rubber, that silky residue. I saw pain, featured in majesty, to grip by
hooks our skies: that morbid passing; those wretched elations; this passive
obsession. (Our days to groaning, this
in-room wind, our inability to speak it: as inrush waves, affixed to proximity,
while sketching a dream—as giving percentages, our moons about our verandas,
our credenzas atop our roofs: those wooden cabinets, as reflexive brains,
fiddling our narrations—those seeping energies, as lived a dream, as no-one
fully fathoms: that steep dejection, followed with treasures, to cycle as
floating a soul to its wings;—as tuxedo galas, our blacktie emotions, that
backless Dior—those immutable trinkets, those dangling diamonds, that utterance
by charisma—those haunting smiles, that haunted neckline, this pace at speaking
as removed from authenticities). We
perish to live, as something gray, to wander through omissions:—our sagas for
gripping, to confess every infraction, as opposed to those horrid
discoveries—as finding love, as reaping disaster, while arranged somewhere to
run: as, indeed, this plight admitted, if time becomes a glacier, where most
affairs are short-lived; as, notwithstanding, this mansion of lies, as zooming
photos, those hours at photo-shops—as picture perfect, while never a blemish,
this radical disaster. We whirlpool
life, scribbling our insignias, suspended at that last lie: [or more to love,
as becoming vulnerable, to announce those unpleasant sagas—where Love receives
us, as battling to release us, our stitches becoming our shelters]: that inner
loveseat; that diary settee; our ottomans but a scream: as spirits heard, to
twist and tease, to tattoo tears:—this reaching luxury, as respecting graces,
where secrets reveal character: our chantress soul, our earshot honesties, our
midday circuits. (I know that heart, as
to have lived that heart, to confess that hearts grow in flurries—our beige
carpet, to sing this life, our summit symbols—as seeds sprout, and blossoms
bloom, where in actuality we confide in kind hearts—that deep stream, that
welkin fortune, this swan swimming through salutations: as born to silence,
while squiggling for mother, that simmering voice at intestines—where love was
precious, at tears by fevers, at opera our membranes: while coldness fell, our
timber sparkling, our exposure surpassing our eyesight—as excited labor, agog our hearts, to gambol our elations:
that feeling steep, that weeping
willow, this bishop’s gravity: if but to live, as dying rebirths, at flux a
fist filled with symbols).
