When a loser wins, by incredible force,
laughing for bawling into sorrows—as
caged glory, inverted joy, this indication of ruins: affected by dregs,
seeping into mother, abandoned to flux-conceptions: our morning bacon, or red
beans with rice, our evening ham-hocks.
We boil greens, flushing our temperaments, slicing a seven-up cake. We help with insulin, piercing as living,
playing, I-Declare-War—while
unhinging lights, rattled for awakened, becoming this adult person. [I’m years by memories, featured
intimidations, listening, for at war those islands: that cyan rose, that yellow
lightning, this burgundy-oaken-wand—where seeds sprout, our budding
intelligence, our welkin-wilted-wrangling(s)—as trenchant filth, this sudden
breakthrough, a bit cultic those eyes his brains]. It was life to live, as death to die,
where lines became by glory: while soil bleeds, our hands to molehills, our idols
dispensing mystery—to love as wretched, pleading for forgiveness, to rebuild
with life reaping vengeance: that omic
well, those cherries with teas, this
uprooting wheezing—while cut to gristle, as metaphoric music, where one is besieged by pure phantoms—that glorious smile,
those angel-soft cries, this feeling escaping its holster: to love cleverly, as
running from self, a felt exhaustion with life: that pitch black phoenix; that
sky-orange hawk: this sulfur by clouds dripping into existence—as lived a soul,
addicted to apricots, belly to dirt kissing violence—where love was attraction,
this encased feeling, while too mawkish to retrieve existence: that pink moon,
as jutted into thunder, to thrust with life that trenchant heart: those
top-stove steaks, smothered in gravy, served with Spanish rice: that angry
jelly, by nectar rich grapes, our mornings greeted with beauty: this signal
blinking, if but a time for courage, our silken souls up for review. (I see us soaring, at wars with
negligence, listening to inflated sighs—as livid or gracious, or gracious for
livid, racing for chasing sky-purple: those inner training-wheels, as removed
to focus, this trail of bike parts. We
trek a mime, peering at features, painted in tears—this glorious pardon, this
field of cheetahs, this shamanic language: if but a second, to measure by
minutes, this ghostly paradise—or feral a dream, as cursed a legacy, to seep
for abysses crawling by clouds—this wretched silence, if but to perish, as
lived cooking his philosophies: that trenchant Logician, that eloquent
Academician, that told science as revealed in cultic rites—your harmonic eyes,
that lute to lungs as wailing, those harps to essence at cadence those skies;
at lions with caution, relaxing a caustic shrill, to forge with lights those
welts by glory). We seize as losing,
while seized as winning, leering in private: that languishing voice; that
wrenching mind; this person at heart those hurdles: to float while grounded,
soaring through caves, at luxuries those grandiose feelings—as garnered
emotions, those blue petals, this age of vanity: while steep at altruism, some
version that vein, a river to souls as seldom selfish: this incredible person,
that walking academy, that royal fever—as delicate cries, or rabid elation, or
sitting in solace-sorrows: this mountain to shivers, that field to vacancies,
or this mental labyrinth; where love is patient, as all encompassing, something
appealing to Realists: that I-Us, as Us-I, fragmented but whole a sign to
tetras. [We could to love, sorting
out debris, while barely at closure; or to have for melodies, this signal at
dawn, where love cries as slowness at silence: this velvet pillow, those golden
sheets, that turquoise temperament—as coursed through curses, while laughing
our joys, with little to life as functions our fears: thereto, our realist
souls, a bit to imaginations, reeling in sanity; or more to best friends, as
never an interruption, fueled by dreams: those steep relations, embedded in
intuitions, as carries our earth]. I
pause, staring at dressers, melting into mahogany blues—as rich in downcast,
fiddling to arise, occasioned as one where success scrapes his surface: those
brilliant volts, that brilliant retraction, this felt sadness permeating our
inner persons—where love becomes an expression, as chained to freedoms, where
it will always caress such love.
