We crawled quickly, to totter gently, to
run through villages: such bewildered souls, struck by thunder, our incipient
selfish love; as molded parts, or broken dreams, prior that belt by lives—as
coveting deaths, this bellic chi, this
irreducible cage—while, thereto, this edge by sanities, this wedge by glories,
our hedges reduced to asylums: such comfort to brains, to forfeit forgiveness,
while tyrannical those lethal heart-tests: that casual nonchalance, that proud
disposition, whereto, another sees carelessness:—that thin line, that velvet
oath, this oaken ruler—as ruled by dreams, that fading sycophant, that emerging
warrior. We cloak embarrassments,
weeping our numbness, admiring novelty: this meeting by madness, as irked near
submission, where whales sing but isolation—by cold mirrors, as never a glance,
while inducing sheer ecstasy: or forests grackles, or desert ferrets, anything
but our dreams. It took guidance, to
lather scars, as emerging a palm filled with compasses: this scream she sold,
our scolded metals, as such performance perchance for cocaine. We could to laugh, if hell was funny, where
irrevocable pride haunted its very deaths—this achy rib, our coiled kiln, this
furnace as returning to executions—those conceited flowers, staring in
amazement, frozen but a glance a day: as unbound, we sung, thereto, those
soprano skies—filled with flights, this mental concerto, swearing by
surveillance—those cryptic women, as thought that art, where others spoke of
simplicity: that courage dripping, our moods shifting, those bars to dreams at
full appraisals. We exist as strangers,
this universal chase, scathing absolute science: that tiny turtle, wiggling to
sea, as only a few escape—those years to flagons, that need for evidence, that
forfeited dream: as told him anything, his senses tingling, but never an
inquiry for color.
I’m chasing waves, and penetrating
façades, heart-deep in seaquakes: this purple loquat, adrift by twilight, a bit
leery about folklore—those beige chandeliers, that see-through gin, his essence
split and auctioned to those lurid jackals: this place as churning, our cadence
as osmosis, while others have died given but guts and glory: our soaring amore,
this cloud-born phoenix, this ache discerning its likeness: as gloomy mirrors,
or proud sky-dreams, at touch but life given to seeds: our nibs hidden; our
inlets squeaking; our ten year battles against self—that edgy soul, those
watery mystics, this hectic snow fury.
I’m chasing dreams, sunlit to vanish, polished by spectators: that
banished anthem, our cosmic mimicries, this rustic land filled with eagles: if
but to brag, this long felt drilling, as purposed to believe in more than agreements:
or lost to anchors, as never a mirror, while relying on sinning against self.
