By cultic love, thrust into wilderness,
abandoned to occults—this livid light, our souls to darkness, as
inheritance-roots: this esoteric, amazed a heart-kick, to settle for losing:
that grave bleeding, our palms to soil, this hunger to cherish—as perished his
name, this sullied scoundrel, flipping through yogic spheres: this debased
existence, about love his neck, as hurdles floral into dimensions: by Jesus
rain, telic through maya, this
Buddhist mortuary. We felt for slain,
unfastened souls, made privy to orchestras: that wellic dramatist, that ancient blueberry, this gilt’d sword: our
brains to sky-searches, our hearts as subjects, this warmth as rendered our
captured séance: those portals to screams, this lava river, our swans debated
at full length: this frightened feeling, staring at psychotic brains, as never
existed a woman so gentle: that mobile trance, this merging universe, this
hectic resentment for losing his ghosts: this maverick dream, this eclectic cemetery,
out theosophies running through bedroom mirrors: indeed, our apocalypse, this
outer tickling, this push by shoulders—this morbid man, that tremendous smile,
this sanctuary by apparitions—to goose through lights, shackled to chaos, our
ceilings dripping sulfur; such ignescence, or ravishing ecstasies, to fall
through psychiatric patterns: that reaching nun, as lost to his forest,
disguised, attempting this ‘normal’ existence: notwithstanding, this calling,
that boisterous soul, this imaginary voiceprint. We tilt dimensions, to lilt inventions,
realizing it merely requires revving: this gorgeous daughter, our suspicious
mothers, at hells attempting to carry Yahweh—this blank stare, this trembling
undulation, that one ghost striking for treacheries: our livid minds, as
catering dementias, while at lengths to admit there was motion: that lonely
hallway, that mental vestibule, this tale for hours told by purgatory; while
weeping at trees, this symbolic image, while chills frustrate this current
passion: this likeness distorted, this woman too brave, this man a bit behind
on smarts; as crooked leverage, this brook soaring, our days at Bethlehem. Such radiant prints, this psalmic soul, this
palmic spirit: those leery priests, that intrepid pastor, this mystic as
computing an entrance: that yogi dancing, that Sufi soaring, those brains to
years reading Hinduism: this thought by cadence, this room melting, our wiccans
speeding through tornadoes—as more than conquers, our grandmothers’ box, this
push through dungeons swallowing keys.
We typed a curse, at love by remorse, searching islands for spiritual
vaccines: this steep confusion, this inner mathematics, that cryptic exposure:
nonetheless, this silent vexation, this inner dynamic, our dreams tugging at
our eyes: that spirit hovering, as pushing us to pillows, to sit with ease
rebuking psychic manifestations: that metaphysic, that scientific, this measure
by religiosity—to see with patience, this Mason by screams, to endeavor as
running through prisms. We thunderbolt,
as hectic as time, lost in a few features: this man to cults, or established
religions, while digging for dying those dreads
to sky-fires: those endless signs, this dreaded abyss, our moments to
resuscitate: moreover, a dream, this shivering spirit, those violent movements:
as possessed her mind, this living poltergeist, this inhalant spell—as pills
for sacrifice, this coven by women, this cult by men: if but to touch, as
hushed a scar, this writer seeping into mother: that brilliant machine, as pushing
for treasuries, where life was angelic torture: to peer at Mary, or to forgive
Magdalene, with minds scoping this telepathic horizon: our psychic physics, our
phrenic essence, this ache through touch so embedded as carpets—that goth
enchantment, this furious reservoir, our souls threshed in Africa—as seated
near oceans, tugging a lion’s tooth, abandoned to those days of silence: this
motion as catapulted, that mystic Zenist, this tangible invisibility: to know
for names, reaching for cadence, if but to explain to an infant swan: our
fathers’ legacies, our grandfathers’ brains, this method by exaggeration, [as
igniting a flurry of ghostly particles]: furthermore, this inner skeptic, while
doubting experience, placing our campfires in (parentheses).
