Underdog Wings

I write to erase: I chase to retreat: I laugh undergoing duress…this fevered coldness, this warm travesty, those filters as leaking poison; where Love was gentle, this achy feeling, to misconstrue life: that molehill madness, that mystic fury, such by rage to outwit misery: if but to perish, laughing a storm, fevered as self-conscious: this looking at self, to witness our mistakes, as to sense this foreign person; where one winks, as one speaks, while another tampers with that foreign person: (this trespassing voice, a force deep in guts, while seated a millennia afar: that achy pressure, that sudden inversion, to reach an office where one speaks gibberish: that deep explosion, to utter that name, while a decade beyond reach: this music, so sweet to tears, this woman too removed from mirrors: to comb mane, at mere a glance, to utter this resistant moon).  We kiss at deaths, our shadows so close to symphonies, while another announces our incessant breaths: that wicked friend; that infant swan; this catastrophe while so selfish to yank another to dust—that dusky palm, this theoretical, this controversy surrounding intelligence: our sun rejected: our souls cleaving to hay: this filthy type of emotional bar-work.  (Her life is rich, this truism to lives, where it’s easy to flee for flying while ingesting auras: moreover, a dream, insofar, a vision, whereat, a terrific resistance: those ferrets with flees; that rubescent butterfly; that opalescent woman: as never a thought, or more advancement, as wrecked at wars floating to Trinidad).  I feel essence, this tricky confession, where there exists such monopoly: this secret kingdom, this palpable invisibility, while arguing with one to ignore experience: as chatters falderal, this empirical abstraction, while fleeing for driven into an inner volcano.  I’m low by numbers, as born an underdog, racing for captured—that winking clock, this year to souls, that voice as never so close to crying: furthermore, vexation, this in-for-out, as never for such abandonment: as teaching with bias, as distressed by color, while moving exhausted by culture-worship: this mayfly detention, this magpie tree, our owls to venture but a mile this earth—as cursed with love, to fuel with passion, as cut for monitored running into deserts: that easy trail, to forsake all souls, while cleaving to one: that inner fuel, at rabid talks, composed enough to love and forsake: as needing power, this voice as heard, to have for more, (that seven-headed monster).  It’s been life anew, or thoughts astray, needing something inexorable—as unexplained, this person by souls, as resistant our multiple minds: to have his thoughts, to trek his trails, to pass by piercing this stranger: our succinct’d laughter, as afar a cave, at one speaking simultaneously—as never to glisten, at attention to failures, at love with souls destroying beauty: that casual ache, those turns through Savannahs, that leopard standing as speaking with force.