Night has fallen; this man to brains; this
feeling for precious palms—as grieved a nightmare, this flippant ghost, our
Jewish roots. I feel unsung, hiding from
passions, wherefrom, this liquid curse: those gorgeous veins, as sweat shivers,
by waves before trimmers ignite flames: that beige Lamborghini, those jasmine
highlights, this furious fever as frantic our heart-pulses. I see for pleasures, laughing at bedrooms,
hectic a beat this treble voiceprint: to love while deluded, or deluded for
laughing, pulling for gravity’s texture: this crying hex, such affectation, to
emote as winning: this chagrin soul-cave, our depressed underlines, as
suspended in fairytales. It’s been
months, at wrestles this thought, while convicted that one rarely rules—this
casual succession, this castle upon high, this queen running from paparazzi. I die to love us, an inner centerpiece, scribing upon a cedarchest: this vacant us, this mental poetry, our whiffs to
composing sestinas: if but by curses, our gray dusky skies, this man forbidden
from islands—as thought for cuteness, or treasured for strengths, this soul
about steep contradictions: our theologians, by crooked ethicists, rolling
through a swamp of alligators. I saw a
face, not much to brains, for life was beauty: those aesthetic women, those
mirrored ceilings, this soul by much too early—as now to senses, as feeling his
motions, to court with passions unbeknownst to ghosts: this livid insight, as
easy strokes, to come to conquer a bit for leagues: this fabulous Latin, that
gorgeous Ethiopian, that Amish runaway—as traveling trains, a pack but wolves,
released for tortured at playing violins.
We met by reasons, a man afore his mirror, a woman distrusting his
glow—as knowing contours, that subtle light, to become so calm as to exist pure
distresses. I thought to kingdoms, as
laughed by gravity, a man to his dreams; or better by visions, to cut a slice
for Love, while threshed peering at wealth: that last heist, those golden
coins, this inner safe; as, moreover, this silky sorrow, a bit to maniacs,
while secluded by sexual satiation: those acid brown eyes; our violet hopes;
those aqua feelings—where detriment becomes life, feigning as if, to become
more than that deception: our psyche battleships, as inner ventriloquists, such
as marooned heart-shakes—that wicked cry, as held to disdain, to see for curses
this immortal legacy—our bleeding palms, our French wine, this German sylph: if
but to graduate, at mafia elbows, to bate as winded that long forest: our
colorful scruples, our uneven love, to sense with silence an emerging tear:
this silent woman; this missed-the-mark, Love; this riddle steaming before me:
this man running, for leaping, our hurdles by cemeteries—that inner clash, this
arrhythmic séance, our mothers, our love, dear for God. I can’t escape it, as never he should, to die
laughing at structures: this false pretense, as required dearly, loving for
needing while captured a father’s curse: this immortal woman; this soundproof
head-storm, if but one last drink. I must
to chuckle, a soldier as an odd number, drizzling for falling into crayons:
this deviation, as eyes swim, this woman too precious for deers: that Beyoncè
grin, or Queenly eyes, by treasures to study physiognomy. I was at love, as cursed to fail, our memories
upon a mantelpiece—those nestling screams, this Captain Crunch, our dinners
nearly complete—as another day, pining for sinning, reduced to pulling away:
this edgy soul, as livid with truths, while merely a sophisticated ferret;
indeed, to measures, peering at beauty, by memory these spiritual
militias. I’m lost to fixing, while
found in ruins, those years to dregs—to find with life, those universals, while
sensing subtle nuances: this capital mother, that lost repute, an entire city
grieving her guts; but love was ripples, this furious cage, our days as
numbered this month: as, hitherto, to have ruined passions, laughing for
shivering, those mornings to plucking eyelashes: this moving muscle, as crafted
with neon, or exposed as fluorescence. I
loved a fable; I died to gamble; I shot tenor a thousand suns: this casual
recession, as inner regression, while morbid a taste peering at another’s
dreams: our sleepy shadows, those escaping words, this feeling as, Rather he would: as locomotives,
plucking lemons, harvesting apricots: that cyan blouse, ruined in laughter, our
suits dripping sap; indeed to luxuries, while spent a curse, forbade by
circumstances: those mystic eagles, our mystic Jesus, as sipping for nibbling
this sacred body—to flee with love, at leaps through winds, at hearts to
awaken.
