We
bake sensations, our souls curdling, our hearts melded through brains: steep
concentration, inner fellowship, our thoughts to webs as rockets; to move
gently, as wilder than cadence, our sirens alarming our features; to love
casually, or die rabidly, at faces with grit tersely—those strained reasons, to
explode essence, as wafting against motion—that core resistance, this fatal
passion, our bodies frantic that lost touch.
I awoke to senses—this revving sensation, at thoughts a bit unlike our
souls—to capture by glimpses, this shadow running, our ceilings spaced for
chaos—that fevered calmness, as sips were belched, our racial religiosities:
those witches spinning; those Sufis at dervishes; our church knell celebrating
rising spirits—as voiced his mirror, inverted your heart, to die while
breathing sorceries: that heresy grieving, his loft too high, our cadence to
miseries—as excited joys, this coquettish trail, to desire with fury while
writhing—that fire-jaguar, those watery coyotes, as eyes graphed in turtle
shells—as loved but broken, or broken for tendencies, at whales screaming our
electricity: hither, my soul, hither, our dilemma, hither, this ache for
perfect shrubberies.
Those
secret cries, that series of volts, this thought merging for exclusivity; to
sit perfection, as sipping voltage, to arrive as knocking at his chest-fire:
that wild thought, this lost soul, our mannerisms superseding our
ambitions—where souls flourish, as dying neglect, while holy for shattered—that
inner legacy, as charged a village, this engine trancelike your mirrors; to
curve justice, as seizing wealth, where off-limits requires an ethical
ark. I could to laugh, if but to feign,
but grizzle bleeds and marrow shatters and tennis becomes a metaphor—his brains
to planets, her aches for granted, our sessions to this web as Scarlet dreams:
those wretched furies; this delirious fusion; your reach too at rest with
potent solitude—as having that feeling, this rope as leaping, this spidery
incantation—to choose his life, while evading his essence, to come to grips by
guts stressing his holiness: that blank grin, as seated alone, to know for
presence—that colorful feeling, as prodded insanely, to ask for comforts: as
love would die, or love would live, this island so advanced as leaking its
substance.
I’m
light-footed, Love—as terrible realities, this inner person—as revved and
shocked, or shocked to life, while florescent concerning those moments at
death—that curious being, at
trenchant locations, trekking this cave of saints—to vanish through eyes, as
arriving at terrors, this screaming as awakening our steepest slumber—this
wicked reality, this cagey soul, our thoughts to awakening again that person:
to forward her mind, as graphed in cages, while at warmth those sips of cocoa;
where solace cries, as aloof at times, to appear a friend that whispering
shadow: our trick-or-treats; our merry-go-rounds; our sad clowns; indeed, this
village of infants, this poverty madness, this kiss that became a grave’s
insanity—as so much to live, laughing while steering, alone at essence—where
sudden a thought, those zenic rites, to sudden a thump: those wires breaking,
your soul to soaring, our mentalities merging if but that segue.
