We scorch dungeons, this pyre of hay,
streaming tragic cantaloupes—those fevered eyes, as composed a nightmare, at
cares for a baby girl: those torching pegs, forbidden but bidden, at tears this
merry-sorrow: that cultic girth, those marble gems, that cagey advice. We tender a fire, as but hypnoses, glaring
through mini-planets: those captive orbs, so enchanted that life, a bit
weathered this pain—those eucalyptuses, that cypress ottoman, this catalogue by
dungeons: that fatal gong, through energy-thoughts, as such to reach his
arc. Its casual love, as dramatic love,
while manuscripts dictate out stage-life: with playing by snails, or symbolic
nails, healing our neighbor’s ails: that Crystal Lake, those rhinestone
heart-blades, our daughters as monuments; where time is law, this ten year
battle, while believing for newness: our thetic prose, our snotty responses,
our inner forgiveness—as lost to lands, or peering at landscapes, a wish upon a
petal—to tug an ear, this otic pistol, while succumbing as needing that
feeling. I’m found gravid, this noetic
kinship, struggling a dungeon: that fair reply; this addict’s headache; this
thirst for Chardonnay: if but to blindness, as caged his essence, at tyranny
this woman’s blessings—as platonic fiber, while gnawing grass, to tug with life
a tender steel. I’m seeing numen, this
twinkling totem, this timeless dungeon; therewith, a dream, as infused a
person, to question our sources: our relating parts, this positive stress, this
negative gift: to choose his life, as rabid a star, as frantic a swan. I loved a twinge, to pursue a vision, while
furniture sat still—this weathered soul, as pure a gem, to curse with life
giving essence: this woven us, as pure delight, to miss our resonance: as never
would, or ever should, while pleading destiny’s sanity: our electric pianos,
our mental symphonies, our pleasures at seeing others smile. I’m wringing sponges, this trickle to brains,
at faces a cultic leopard: that feyic quilt, this mystic feeling, to jettison a
pail of beliefs; heretofore, this lavish sensation, at tears that nun’s
thoughts, while frantic to behave. It
comes to dungeons, as fleeing for flying, at prairie fruits—that place I dwell,
as hiding in neurons, our pistons rapid ‘transmitters—to course with time, our
years our graves, to stand while pleased a tribunal. We lilt this life, proud to have lived, while
shaken to have existence: this gilt’d swan, that attic mystic, those
outstripping professionals: if but for wrung, dripping into washers, our tunics
stripped for healings: that mind, Love, as cultured in parts, to live as
stressing pluralities—this inner ascension, that Iris mentality, this sonic
sound wave—thitherto, this built self, as at love, but terrified: to carry a
feeling, as alive that thought, while vacillating in agonies. I met with dungeons, this space in ruth, to
rill a fortune: this brain’s aches; that need for medicine, while typing out
therapy: our meals to moments; our wills revolting
impulses; as virginity only once a lifespan.
It lived us, this mental repertoire, our garret dances: as pure ballet,
or but a glance to shift, this unending trial—to come to life, as proud by
existence, at membrance those loves
to sins: our signs glaring, our weeping glory, this crypt decorated in triumphs:
if but to live, such gravid splendor, our days at Troy. (I thought to us, as slapping my thigh, while
alive such resonance: this inner cadence, those cryptic rules, this furtive
suggestiveness: where fair is beauty, this wrenching hawk, as never a thought:
to fully explain: I know but a soul, this flushed inner being: I know but a feeling, as absent by judges, that false claim
by love: as different a seed, but most a loss, while to ponder a favorite meal:
those long stems; those fragrant oils; those preferred perfumes: as rapid
magic, intense those brains, as unrelenting engrams; thitherto, this
spirit-cleek, as relentless science, at mirrors coaching this invisible man: so
life to stealth, as born within, as, therein, a dream; or love to flowers, as
passing our gardens, tilling by sickle, as broken with wholeness: our dungeons).
