We spawn for breath, our heart’s forte,
rummaging through confetti: this voiceless harp, as etched in pavements, to
pause sparking candles: this wire’s birdsong, this blue-jay-ribbon, our earlobe
to doorsills; as pure habit, our right-doing grass, to trek vast landscapes:
our black water, sipped with relishing, afforded a séance for wrong-doing: that
mulberry sin, as treacherous transgression, while running city to city—as found
this self, We can’t escape, while
decorating our mirrors: this sizzling soul, at terrible instincts, to feel for
pleasure those morning eyes. Such
see-through masks, such borrowed sorrows, as appealing to souls that futile
rescue: those brackets seething, our bridges collapsing, this sickness ruling
rituals: as but to die, as sewn asunder, our parts splayed before this
audience: those rabid tales, but a graph to intelligence, to hear as forsook to
demons: that running griffin, that inverted phoenix, to feel for purpose while
driven a wound: that subtle fragrance, that silken flesh, this reason for
bleeding while screaming at sanity: that dire portal, this anxious gateway, our
reasons for denouncing our parts.
While wild to rivers, those leopards
watching, our swans gazing upon lapwings—as studied our apes, alongside our
snow monkeys, this riddle concerning monogamy—as birds flew, for rebuked a
dream, at cadence this suburban song: those countryside eyes, this rich
idyllic, our quixotic habits—trekking volcanic water, this icy frost, that
atypical urgency before dying: this hellish valley, our capes torn asunder, our
minds suffering while transfixed: those red leaves, this autumn pain, to come
to designs pleading for innocence: our roasted flames; our chestnut ambitions;
if but this perfect sound—as inner maple buds, or cherry blossoms, our tropic
ideals.
In tears this anthem, as joyous existence,
aflare this mental clarinet: this lamenting organ, praising, Our Father, our
kinetic membranes—as loathed by sickness, or charged for sacrifice, our
conceptions as purely abstract—that type of illness, as never a sin, this
irrational ballad: that orange forest, that burgundy horizon, this want to
enchant one through eternity; but days are gray, feelings are rapturous, if but
to die this fatal attraction: this jota
duet, those augmented dislikes, this mesto
contagion; as colors speak, this humanistic genre, fiddling by palms those
droplets. It’s good to sing, as sought
for pleasures, to have this remarkable union: as never to die, while to live as
melody; that twinkle so far but touched.
We
lose insync-ness, while foraging our wilderness, as puffing our cigars: those
waterskis, that incessant shadow, this need to confess—as brought to surface, a
hundred, Hail Maries, or death this conscience trapeze: as snuck so coldly, as
ravished delights, to have for that facetious smile—where arms shattered, this
flimsy affection, to want for lines those exotic rooms: this failure at
homecoming; this woven lunatic; this nervous man trekking an alley in Peru—as
inner beehives, or sandbox memories, as snail-filled nuggets.
It was life to love, this placeless
format, our robes our thoughts; this village of essence, those trembling vibes,
our rooms paved in remembrance; or to heart that earth, those tongues in
private, this inner night-rising—as trains to seconds, or crafts to minutes, to
hold attentions a solid wingspan: that merchant soul, that medieval madness, as
such is terrific beauty; to coddle a scar, to swaddle a wound, to imagine
Paradise.
