We know adventures, and radical aunties,
as for danger this welt in arithmetic: our pantomime eyes, our caricature
chins, and this slithering, loyal serpent-piece: to cave at manias, our steep
extensions, while pyramids bleed truest legacies: our Jewish sisters; that
whelmed Zion; this foot-troop ravished in combat. I comb existence, fevered by six-senses, at
seven afloat this terminal island: if but to theories, or precious palms, or
that Latin observer: but hell is furious, this dreaming adversary, to court
with purpose our stealth-like mirrors—as acclaimed for violence, our Al
Capone’s, this Valentine’s travesty: to cut with omegas, freezing through
alphas, laughing while shooting hoops with swans: this centipede as vigil, to
climb atop this skycraft, aboard for breathing steep our cabbaged
space-lifts. I love a scheme, as dreamt
in brooks, to lavish an English mother: that funeral art-tare, this weed for
flares, as kosher a pear this garden tragedy—where fathers perish, as lurid
with vices, to perchance those extravagant dementias: our shovels to graves;
our blades to blood; this dripping frenzy as pushing this small infant; indeed,
those thoughts, a crib filled with smoke, this child at secondhand
cocaine—those canine teeth, this vampire’s deaths, this infant cut for waters
bleeding hopes: if but to perish, thrust through hearts, to extract modicum
pains: those forests at treasures, this man at deserts, our camels collapsing
mid-stream; where mother appears, an Angelica Cloud, weighing close to ninety
pounds. I clench fists, thrust trough
penmanship(s), a tare to mopping closets: this dusty bug, that roach at
Thrifty’s, this grasshopper speaking about Precious. It dies this legacy, our torn affair, to
realize this three part dynasty: to sense faces, as distorted intellect, a tear
rabid for hypomanics: such steep dejections, such feelings for joys, such
passions for lights too far to retreat: our baseboard monogamies, our maniac
polygamous, this wrench past reaching for something respectful: our lakes
bleeding, our rivers gangly, this inner eight scything its cavities: as,
notwithstanding, this biblic pastor, or that mystic preacher, while combing
through feminine ministers—as cut to bone, this metaphorical, this mystic
upchucking nerves or less to vomit, while more to intestines, our marrow
transforming by spiritual practices. I
know by anguish, this want for goodness, to
slaughter with essence this person weaving disasters: by nature, this monster,
where Love was want for dying in ecstasies: that film by spirits, as plastered
to plaques, our faces disguised as rendering depictions; albeit, life, this
furious tug-of-war, while steep in sagacious fires—this fool, our souls, to
capture with lightning, our thunders to existence. I realize such hatred, while acclaimed in
silence, where reality fails to purchase love: this precious excuse, those
precious confessions, this inadequate feeling—as pasted to plaster, this
insecure frenzy, at distance, for hell hits: that fabulous assistance, this
ravished beauty, to feel but a tender abrasion: those years to puppets, this
feeling by dolls, where a glance comes with bold expectations. I love baroque, a style as classified, to
convoke a swan’s existence: this dreamy man, at scrub-oaks, a tattered soul
uncloaked—to die passions, as fueled existence, striving to become unyokened:
those radical priests, that frantic nun, this Buddhists Empire: as mother
flees, running into dungeons, fashioned for frantic a scar—as men dine, while
soon to retreat, a couple as mother with son—this voice as treacherous, this
perfect day, while stepfather broke a tender arm: our hearts to dying, our
fathers to crying, this field as infested.
I met a Scorpio, to ponder an Aries, while floored to deaths reasoning through
this Cancer: our glamorous kef, this inner Leo, our existential
Sagittarius—that cold Pisces, bleeding its essence, panicked for trembles
cleaving to this Virgo: our inner outflows, this kitchen suffering, our
pantries cussing: if balanced a Libra, at tears a Taurus, to retreat as dying
our first kiss by graves—at terrible knowledge, escaping through Van Gogh, to
part with an earlobe: as pure terrors, while claiming sanity, this vest
excusing itself for treacherous deeds—as, nevertheless, holding for
captive—those sins in souls, where hurt incurred by circumstances.
