Rehab Intuition

I deleted letters, as found a scoundrel, laughing at delirious mirrors: this step at fury, this cloud as berries, this sipping for dying our sober-liquor.  I felt exhaustion, thinking blue-grass, fiddling with twigs: this mental image, this perfect picture, while scents diminish fruit-fares.  I ache for passion, this infant dancing, this psych decoding psychoses: this man brewing, this butterfly chiseling, this atmosphere, horrific—at cadent laws, pursuing dreams, to sky with elves: that attic cry, this radical wilderness, this space in Egypt: our straw bricks, our feral Pharisees, our disbelieving Sadducees.  I’d live closeness, to die separation, a bit bored but breathing: this agile rasp, our frenzy to detriments, this cagey but sexual cadence: as close to life, while far, therefrom, our harmonies exposed to scissors: if could to laugh, as touched our blood, to bleed while justified: this frequent voice, this rabid attraction, at thoughts to this passive depreciation; where father boggles, at love to fantasy, while mother gruels through realities: this charming death, this brilliant deterrent, our monsters fretting as cameras expose hidden features: this life cringing, this woman believing, those strangers a tadpole curious.  I vex at tunnels, at girth this wand, at forbidden freedoms—as creeping silence, or void its arrival, a second so busy—this angst grinding, this fever demoted, our psychotic therapists—if torn at guts, our lungs depleted, this wroth to heights replenished: as strangers die, invested in make-believe, to find with truth this sustaining alphabet: our waving lights, this tulip scar, our chilled Coronas.  (It came with hell, this fantastic Queen, those juvenescent limbs: our days to rooms, our hospitals’ rejection, this tender soul so distant—at love with violence, to restrict color, our pale-green spinach: as members cleft’d, or romance casino’d, this flippant exhaustion driving wings—where mother is gorgeous, our arms to lights, this welkin swan—but raves to souls, this delicate mystic, to cut as demanding tyrannies: our drunk escapades, our two week episodes, our trips to Neptune: this Biorè wiggling, this Neutrogena hysterical, this psych as balanced as undergirded earthquakes—to arise at dawn, about two hours late, seeking for finding that current).  I think to adornments, this pendant legacy, this furious cygnet—that wailing anger, those torrent secrets, this vest as speaking morality: our European dreams, as paraded in Blackness, this two-toned, shapeless, rehearsal—as living glass, or crafted wood, while metals become melted chaos: our hearts swimming, this need for agonies, this force giving illusion—to love as abandoned, gripping for dear life, a man’s creativities: this moon reluctant, this sun grieving, those stars bearing witness; where an ankh screams, while pyramids retract, while hieroglyphs depict this perfect goddess: our Danish memories, this place as before, this soul bruised for sprinting—as casual portraits, this Getty fiasco, our nights to conversing with Rembrandt.  I love a dream, as perfected distance, to hate a portion this mirror: our deep confliction, this trove of death-prints, this yoke as demanding its contention—to fly with life, at fears to succeed, where Love dwells suspended in admirations: our mystique islands, to see those faces, our therapists squinting for currencies: this frequent stature, as picturesque screams, afforded this advice as pulling in reverse: that circuit demented, this intimacy myopic, those sounds frowning at eternity—as broken leaves, or veins rejecting heroine, this hero in souls depleted from exhaustion—as craving men, or languishing women, to remote this inner control—while mother dies, this son as father, this whirlwind as humble—to cut with daisies, as a furious coffin, to ask for DVD’s.  (Let us mandolin, Love, affected for drenched, revising our guardian alms—while stripped for malice, a tear thunderstruck, knitting legible norms: this face to pillows, this stormy weather, our regional fireworks—where masquerades perform, while thoughts discern, such tender arithmetic!). 

Oil Change

Its collar-vices, orange chicken, and barbeque ribs: Its devices at spirits, this infinite resonance, our friends at mental motors: to exist by cadence, at intricate rhythms, our allegories tugging arcs.  I imagine, Love, those artists’ nobilities, those feral in-exhaustive eyes: our honed hearings, this whiff of frustration, our quasi-infatuations: as mere souls, electric-spirals, this field but a dart afar—as young magicians, this offensive vernacular, our vines as medieval: to slice through pudding, this rich enchantress, so instrumental this voiceprint: our radical language, this knowing as internal, those rockets as vestibules—where mother cries, our muddy doubts, all for essence desiring plain truths: this college of mystics, this Jewish convert, this Irish catholic—at steep ingestions, writhing with observations, attempting to decode this mirror’s image: our cagey thoughts, our inner furnace, this moving vase.  We adore, Love, this vocal dynasty, this heart-chakra—as floating Buddhism, or rabid Christianity, this hankering for Mary’s Wisdom: herewith, are legends, those angelic pilgrims, this iridescent lake—as caves rambling, or petroglyphs aglow, feeling sheer awesomeness: this sudden introject, as brains with minds, as recruiting negative tensions—if but to devastate, as but to scream, where a psych reaches through agitations: our voices retracting, our souls engaging, this portrait disappearing—as soon replaced, this priestly image, those priestly dreads: our inner kippa, this spirit yamaka, this cleaving for jousting to arrive afar—as broken laws, or captive credence, where sheer negligence debates our mental lamp-waves.  I fell to crevices, an exospheric, this esoteric—as racing invites, while chasing leprechauns, as enveloped in essence—this nautical breach, this inner impeachment, our sluggish enlightenments: this mother as radical, this father as soul-life, our spectators siding with lucre—if but to fly, this wellic journey, trekking through a fathom of marsh—as brains charge, while pistons rev, our knowledge-banks overdue for oil change.

We jettison fruits, if but to exist, at captive frustrations: our positions laughing, our souls craving, this ability to hypnotize life—as purified mist, this war with stagnation, this galloping sunshine—to caress mane, our village autumns, our moonlit winters—as arranged agendas, at tales this future, to demand participation: this fretted monad, this irritable nomad, this fleet of disciples pillaging scriptures—as afar this land, or accursed this song, fleeing into ravishing nightmares: this vision as love, our nameless souls, where said affection becomes noteworthy: as living novels, or inverted vacuums, seething with determinants: as theologians, or swanic mystics, or struggling Christians—this light as Love, this star as ignescence, our jars filled with honey—or melon-dew, that sunny-be-gone, while stressing this courage to resist failures: our entreating eyes, our removed intellects, this apophatic revival: to dine with spirits, as to summon arcs, this person a vehicle thrust to war: our cryptic alliances, this voice with sparrows, this cataphatic sea-scroll: where swans drift, as appealing to grandparents, while one garners for sheer recruitment: to see with vengeance, this apostolic sun-birth, wailing for panicked adrift this Pentecostal.  I heart-vex, as a vexed heart, carving oaken agreements: our Love to whirlwinds, our days as righteous, as only family agrees our lights: this man chiseling, as removing rusts, where mirrors glisten with imageries: this frantic buffing, this cussing by pains, our minds heavy to meadows—insofar, our humanity, as never this curse, while cautious with comforts.

May our souls breathe, this island mesmerized, our arcs redeemed through fires.      

Carpenters

I confess love, this bright, beige jasmine—as told to live, this inner sage, speaking by chairs: our delicate rights, our turmoil movies, this hold as gripping his lungs.  I remove malice, to escape darkness, as found this mirror mockingly: that flushed face, that brilliant burgundy, those beads beneath skin-lines: where mother peeks, this woman so different, this light so familiar: to die as activated, or live as salivating, our tours through psychic vales: if but her music, devoid of passions, this likeness buried in marsh-caves.  I saw flowers, this rite by passages, our addicts mastering this Bar Exam: as L’Oreal castles, or morning queens, electric for thrashed but strong: this furious swan, this rapacious mother, our cousins trekking millennia(s)—this jacinth scar, this russet broach, those pendants speaking this language: as men dying, while losing lights, to want with desperations: that feral Chantress, this welkin liturgy, our rooms polished by mistakes.  I control responses, as laughing sanely, while a smirk indicates floating intuitions: our ears churning, our hearts thumping, this quadroon swan baking crayons; indeed, to laugh, while shooting galaxies, to mimic by tithes this art called, Survival.  We sense chi, we live faith, our nights our moistened pillows: this dear friend, as instinctual as deers, as elusive as foxes: to call ghosts, as soaring our gates, too at tears to enter (this itch for fame, or burning cosmos, to flutter as stuttering fencing Jerusalem): this mental texture, this emotion-lotus, this silken portrait—afore, bitter this life, a bit bad and anxious, so brief those rabid rivers—as father flies, this clumsy island, where perfection rules our aspiring arts: to come to fissures, this leaping Empire, distinguished as cultured our noses (this cane of sugar, this bamboo ritual, or more to souls, this Desert Manna).  I’m set to feelings, this detached observation, tugging at European Ideals—this chilly contour, this inner countenance, this whisper as eyes birthed through guillotines—as collapsed souls, disguised in fiction, this gnawing of nails: our lockets screaming; our dreams distressing peace; our tempers inverted as displayed with purpose: this man giggling, this woman laughing, our days to places too far for travels: as rifles salute, where rabbits run frantically, this cruel existence feeling good!  It was years to life, and souls to deaths, this dusty sea-scroll: as dry lagoons, or pictureless skies, our rainbows running for captured: this anxious kiss, this relaxed intimacy, this curious contradiction—while swift to patience, this impatient archive, a tour fascinated by archeologists: this wet cloud, this precipitation, our metaphoric existence—as shifting paces, a tear wet for understanding, this fierce spell at candles: those pictures of Jesus, this granny eluding, this grandfather good with figures—as souls ingest, this rune’n wilderness, becoming pragmatic aloofness: this wretched taboo, this black-art ceiling, this hart staring intently: where features speak, this inner essence, this lance jousting truths; herewith, we verge upon feelings, this love with nary a desire: as fools live, losing life, while admiring but never seeking; indeed, to pains, as passions swim, this outer groan while rooms are secluded.  (I see a swan, this velvet depiction, this inner paleontologist—this ash to third-eyes, this cedar-wood sight-fire, this black-oak ephod—while steep a blessing, averting this curse, as pure as deliverance: to fly with ballad-eagles, to soar as tailored faith, while whispering, Anita Baker: our hearts to souls, this feeling relinquished, this bear near brains as un-sight-able: our casual dreams, as actual realities, to slice with thoughts a loaf of bread: or unleavened dough, to bake from scratch, while heavy with cinnamon: this space in aches, this heart in cores, this peace as surpassing terror’d chaos: to love as seasoned, to season as stationed, to station as silenced midnights: that defunct distance, those tottering feelings, this sallow rose—where love perfects, as chasing our visions, to hone with practice this art abiding in concentration: our royal cauldron, our diamond carpets, this swanic carpenter).     

Lockets & Cedarchests

We dream by freedoms, while encouraged by myths.

I feel anxiety, plummeting near surfaces, at names conditioned by yoga: this fair flight, at steep anticipation, as ashes trickle to consciousness: these sips to study, this psalmic verse, our years debating our sanities: as fallen vessels, feeling this enormous high, a tear to solace losing reputation.  I hear heaters—distressed as beavers, this dam covered in algae: that last meeting, this greeting by subtleties, to imagine this lack of see-through: such anxious vices, this truth diminished, our comforts with awning lies.  I fumble music, while seeing grays, alive by rainbow futures: those pleated nuances, this inkling breath, our bodies resounding in essence: as swamps simmer, this keel rattling, this lumen occurrence.  As but a child, this soul was drained, as now, this conviction to reclaim innocence: this rabid mother; this absent father; those abusive figures: such brass instruments, this fluting wind, those atypical triumphs: this mental diary, those damning documents, this abrasive art seething with confliction: those radical pillars, as ignoring reality, while a field away dances a tiny leprechaun: those addict features, embedded in sober souls, at once, a tear distracted by appropriate manners: this jacinth moon, our stomach-harpoons, this fane at reminiscence where love was gentle.  I feel amiss, this torture close to distant, our fairytales given us illusions: this barrel bleeding, our souls calculating, our mystics doing but so much: as gnats swarm, while ravines scream, our hearts to skies falling rapidly: those contemning pits, this psychical brook, our claves colliding with infestation: this curdling milk, this freshet of soda, our souls ravished by mere displacements: if but to soar, as afforded rites, while galloping towards this romantic paradise: this spirit-garth, this heart-explosion, this furious Thai Chi—as canyon crayons, or adolescent secrets, while too grown to believe in tooth-fairies.  I feel stagnant, where time is lethargic, pitching pebbles at clocks: this dice flipping, our dreams raffled, this girt about our intentions: (this hard task, as Buddhist souls, this compassionate sponge): whereto, this Christian walk, while debating God’s children, where a manic remains condemned.  I know by units, this accumulation, our rigid demands: this kissing of buttocks, where one is satiated, while an entire fortress lives that horrific existence.  It should to love, this daughter at flights, while experiencing this adult shark-life: this vase rattling; this veil deigning; our vests unbuckling: that Tall Tower, this buttress of affairs, our bulwarks invested in longevity—our Wheel spinning, this whistle enthralling, our needs for immediate satisfaction: this addict’s ruler, our wires unlatching, this furious feud to relocate: if but designs, as void of actions, we, hereby, blame existence: but actions denote, as pointing towards, while constructing our mental realities: this lissome swan, as a gracile soul, a bit to furnaces attempting to decode riddles: this thing to clearance, as piecemeal puzzles, where honesty connotes fitting fragments.  I scratch and type, as often to tussocks, our palms fiddling earth—this wretched reality, as assumed normal, while souls flee returning to inner mirrors: this depraved behavior, as screaming and yelling, while at rests fevered with anxieties: that cold feeling, while needing excitement, trekking this synaptic vale…this crazed feeling, as pure deceit, while feeling goodness this warm reception.  (At sundown, this pumpkin patch, our jackets decorating our countenances: where one retreats, as shifting ladders, our raspy voices pleading innocence: this frog to flowers, this flower to tadpoles, this tadpole morphing into existence: as signs blink, as odors warn, our fangs seeping into contentions: while never to wholeness, this theologian grumbling, while doors open at promised catastrophes.  I feel preachy—this long embrace, this heart-lamp—where roses vomit, as budding passions, while caved for glowing this arrival—those pictures flashing, as steep our cerebellums, where lockets capture traumas).    

Instrumentals & Cadence

It gets cold, our paramour, this liaison spent to perish: such elegant minds, such beautiful souls, at verges sounding sentimental: this luxury, those apricot smiles, this tender wilderness—as caught for captured, our souls enraptured, this caterer this tale of horderves—as sent to laughing, those Asian eyes, those European hips: if but for love, our Jewish queens, a bit restricted reading our Torahs.  I come to passions, such German romance, our African debutantes: where mother puffs, as father snorts, our living rooms abundant with fevers: that inner Frisbee, that outer maneuvering, this tetras as rising to ceilings.  I pet a lizard, deep in trance, to blend our souls—as moving cargo, or hankering over nonsense, at slight irritations figuring for pure disdain—as to possess her, this field in men, this immortal chase: those boxy eyes, that rainbow silk, this stature spoken from mother’s genetics—as caves collapse, our pigtail daughters, out pig-trunk pressures—to fly at terrors, as loving beyond healings, at shorelines stuttering: our trips to Malibu, that sheer serenity, watching as pelicans remote our skies—this data seeping, those years to dalliance, this redwood condition—as palmer-wood screams, our wormwood frustrations, this wingspan leaping for arriving cursed.  We study atoms, this irreducible entity, thrust through by monads: our blizzard lounge, this incredible sylph, our dreams to another man’s island—as accursed in motion, at steep fantasies, to desire this position as hero: those heroine allegories, that saga concerning insistence, this moon pervading its location; indeed, this mystery, as pervasive pains, to cruise through Bellflower—those sites, those passions, this irreversible hex-sorrow—as seeping into Long Beach, treading old terrain, this nostalgic esoteric—so close to breathing, and thrust six feet steep, alive a blessing seeming as cursed.  We unlatch scars, peering at beauty, reminded of transference: this mental prompt, this lotic land, this ceramic lotus: as gashes and piths, at challenges to confess, at angers concerning this immortal race: our panting breaths, this dear gazing, our anxieties concerning our dreams—as years rustle, while shrubberies grow wildly, this feeling that face this ache; herewith, are ambitions, to remote existence, where perfection fails this range by taints: our painted houses, our furtive alibis, while some are insistent upon protecting their gamble—as admiration, while never to mornings, looking adrift agaze’d by passions: this leaky latch, this inner ink, this heart-flog as suspended midair—our broken cords, this fiery engine, this want to impress with every endeavor: our women laughing, those spots to tickle, this waistline aphrodisiac—while appealing to existence, this sobbing ache, this whelmed arc—where good is sufficient, but radical is adored, while too much becomes lethal intoxication.  We dance this shadow, filled with ardor, sipping russet wines—as built for one, fleeing through emotions, to become tugged by insights: this man dying, this woman challenged, this sorrow while elated that ark: our candid seconds, as propelling doubts, to realize this essence comes with temptations: but oh to love, this green-grass feeling, this nub rotating its axis—as casual fools, this existence for compassion, this noble bleeding—as surges rage, this flippant by cultures, this rasp gnawing upon endless dreams.  (I adore, Love, to secern as falling, while at regrets I can’t mention: this regressive mind-ghost, this feeling by phantoms, this prow as soaring by agonies: this young lady as perfected a gift, where today becomes an arrow: as presents swarm, and fathers laugh, this sip-to-sip frustration: insofar, a feeling, while abused for exiled, or at tops this arranged insanity: that casual existence, this infuriating blackhole, our spacial fields collapsing—while cygnets torture, this gutty feeling, adrift a dart to compound hearts; indeed, to serums, this fluidity as niceness, where voices dangle from nooses: but hell to self, as at tears with self, confused this island about behaviors: to see us dying, at life by seconds, to excuse this plethora of negative thunderclaps: our dreams, Love: our agonies redeeming; this existence too impassioned to grackle as this seated forest).   

Died In You

Those Syracuse eyes, that NARS foundation, this shared glow: those warrior souls, explosive at contact, suffused in paranoid dreams—as screams his fingers, our nails bloody, this steel wall buried: our hectic light-posts, this infamous cul-de-sac, our etchings upon Berlin’s traumas.  I died in you, those delirious wailings, as effused by golden meadows (at treasures those topaz travesties): if cried a man, our bones trembling, such to glory this fleece of harmonies.  It could be love, where pains are dormant, this latent development—as sable sorrows, or mahogany miseries, this melancholia disease; hereto, this silent agony, this snoring wife, our passions submitted for overhaul: as tainted caricatures, or saffron shrubberies, feeling treacheries with each shearing: that soul flying, living contractions, a bit torn about excitement.  It was pure lusts, thrusting for thrashing, and ravished at every churn: this diluted texture, as spread abroad, where engines shed cylinders—as pistols peek, our transmissions bleakish, our radiators pushed through emissions: this sound soul, leering at porcelain legs, while gripping sandy-blonde-bluish skies: this turquoise feast, as afflux through marsh, traipsing auburn rivers: this mental monsoon, this mansion for thoughts, this mystical road-tremor—insofar, at persons, tugged by imaginings, at one with hatred (at one with love)—this inverted sculpture, our trenchant scripture, this sound in silence slithering through satyrs: as arising as broken tiles, engulfed by shattered shards, to piece together this fragmented image; wherefore, this love, as needing this picture, to feel accepted this vice as cultured: those rabid seconds, those flooded arcs, our grannies quilting our emotions—this radix pain, as suffusing machineries, such as magic mourns—those jasper screams, as bleeding jasmine, at sudden a welt to flesh.  It seems askew, this group of glass, where parties are chunking batteries: as men falling short, and women missing their lights, while essence remains distorted; but enough to ignorance, demanding fraudulent wages, while one sits pitted in abrasions: this fragile entity, those frantic eye-prints, this overwhelming fury—as Europeans dance, this legacy by laws, to find at heart this need for reflection: that cursed vein, those morbid cries, this tug erupting by infatuations; indeed, as hands bleed, this excruciating rage, thrust through with invisible piercings—this tale unsold, this wall in China, our hair screaming by testimonies.  (It was grueling, as groveling, while gripping mud-faces: this miracle loss, as accustomed to losing, at wonders this plight called, wining: those green blades, that sandy-brown-ash, this dot fueling our inheritance—insomuch, a symbol, where time is adrift, while thoughts ravish innocence: as sweet cadence, to see your face, while rumbling through this warzone: our grumbling heart-stomachs, our motionless core-brains, this vest as velvet violets—where grandpa groans, as tetras to larks, our voyage nibbling upon our albatross: if but with passion, to utter but love, while dying remotely to minutia: this inner canine, this intimate feline, this old Mongolian ally).  I love a thought, aside an image, grounded in idealism: to lose a thought, while replacing an image, uprooted but afflicted: this swooping sun, this inner estuary, those algae-eating-tadpoles: as minds to soaring, to adore for calling, while aches shimmer into depictions: our outer prose, our mental restraints, this predicament concerning such wants: to have as sentenced, this love for strangers, while at lakes pitching our blessings: this fabulous minx, this sylph by dreams, this coquettish diary—thereto, this need for love, as sung his minutes, tugged in several directions: to give us deaths, while embracing lights, insofar, a curse, evading passions: that heaving gut, those sprinting ankles, that prestigious backline—as riveting spines, those sensualities, that enriched sophistication—as men churn, afloat through grime, singing as sung our path to purgatory.               

Furious Freedoms

We embark afar, this lone wolf, those terrifying coyotes: this brave swan, those kleptic hearts, this ravished reservoir: as pure souls, inverted for thwarted, at telic abandonment: this fuel driven, this psych winded, our professors grading with disgusts: those introjects, this mountain peak, our eyes to promise reluctant to travel: if but rhinestones, this whetstone fortress, this whet hankering—as phantasmagorias, sentenced to survival, while at mixtures this blended margarita—those atmospheric-space-feelings, this steep concentration, those mothers ecstatic this coming existence: our daughters to colleges, our fathers to head-storms, our souls inflective machines: this rigid lake, this muddy marsh, this magpie laughing at beadles.     (We create serenity, this inner therapeutic, this enraged woman seeking beyond desires: this placemat, this invisible energy, this roaring monsoon: our Asian wisdom, our African tribes, this effort in Kenya—to chance upheaval, pictured in London, signing for panic this endless prison: to love, wherewith, as stricken with four lives, at membrance this bipolar-rocket-essence—if but lethargic, this universe within, to glean as sentenced that sudden fire-dart: our Cajun inheritance, our European sophistications, this mental Elizabeth besprinkled upon womanly achievements—those gray aircrafts, this seated ensuing, our shifts with lights a given source—that radical brain-fen, this flapping by feathers, our ceilings but a gnat’s resilience: as granny’s child, or grandfather’s project, subject to hours admiring this Chinese vase: those beige endeavors, this love for revolting, our feelings as clouded this whiff of excitement—as yearning through pressures, alas, to cry, this devout feature whining to pavements).     It was good to love, those days of yore, our resistance weighing heavy upon our tonsils: our wiggly invites, those tears to Jamaica, this furious force outwitting its possession—where kingdoms perished, while infants ruled, as graduation becomes this series of piercings: this woman moaning, this man at debates, our siblings crossed for threshed seeking revivals: our panic cut, our tyrannies vicious, this feeling of more lost in everything.     I haunted houses, this ghost afore, at wars those sentient aggravations—that small crevice, this rabid furnace, our wants while convicted this steep inheritance: our nights to literature, as lost to imaginings, to find with culture our protected silence—as music cringes, this closet affection, at birth seeping for dwelling into freedoms: thereto, this enchantress moon, this bleeding sun, those stars as carrying wretched elations—where ‘ologies resound, as souls ollie, whereat, this perfidious nudging towards disaster: that woman knitting, those holy crochets, this well screaming this censored language—to die by freedoms, as free to restrain, while pudding feels a boxy concern; those ferns laughing, this tumbleweed weaving, those desert sharks baptizing loners.     (I love as dying, this myriad of fields, this disease questioning humanity—or more this feeling, as abreast too many novels, this rich investment in appropriate conduct—as one a villain, suppressed in cravings, while, nonetheless, behaving accordingly: those gorgeous cries, as tugged from beneath, where men need desirable passions: this splendiferous woman, too sexy for gazes, as alarming this inner man: that feeling to sing, as sung by demons, to tug at something which evaporates: our southern comforts, our northern windmills, this combination destroying its subjects: as curious souls, those shapely figures, this lust uprising through excitements: to turn left, as craving righteous, while found brooding at rivers: this horrid soul, fetid with spirits, while wrestling for decencies: our horrid philosophers, this tale by Schopenhauer, this theologian’s redemption: as torn to seeds, bleeding reflections, while wretched a thought too close those measures; where mother mocks, as father is distant, while this repeated life demands clarity: those chimpanzees, accorded this force, a tear void of moral dialogues—as fleeing souls, or trapped mongrels, trapped in furious freedoms). 

Tipsy Whirlwinds, or Raving Floor Beds

Aha!: this trinket element, afar for wide those darling eyes: if but for deaths, this flesh to bone, as begun this spawning web: our kleptomanias, as inner vices—to thrust by sudden a sound: this man dying, for living in Vogue, this anxious schizophrenia—as tossed to swords, garnered in agonies, at love this lone soldier.  I ache with parents, this child so dear, while appearance becomes tragic: our achy grains, this fueled flame, as romance seeps into treasure boxes: our cursed forever(s), our evening evermore(s), this flint to souls as crafted a skilled revival: to perish as friends, while loving as parents, this silky index through mane—where mothers tremble, as fathers retreat, to come to passion as fully present.  We pain for dying, at movies disinterested, at souls for sheer this release—as fathers shiver, this captive image, to want with light this fabulous alpha.

       

Let’s go astray…

…I knew as younglings—this fantastic reverse, at birth seeking this flower: our tulips burning, our laughs as remorse, our faces fleeing while standing stillness: this reckless us, forbidden from existence, peering at aphoristic dynasties: our soft music, this blind seeking, to abort but none: as casual fools, or erotic roses, this shrubbery by aces: as green pastures, or wheat willed fields—those tetras poses, that Rubik’s intellect, this I.Q. battle at chivalries with existence—as spacial ghosts, or grandparent wits, where such remains subject to abortion; indeed, to cuts, flipping through bruises, where laughs offend butterfly ears.

I felt a swan, this day to miracles, as none deigned this lot of praxis: those old clichés, to have awakened as sameness, while claiming as triumphant—those burgundy glasses, this silver snake, our harmony depended upon submission: as flavored fools, engraved in tombs, speeding for racing up Venice.

I come to lights, this thin creation, a tear radical to disguises: as viewing self, while recruiting others, to learn with force this roundabout invention—where swans shiver, as struck by phantoms, bleeding for living effused through verses: that tall tale, that wretched feeling, this surprise as afflux a thousand dimensions—to see with love, this inner redemption, to part with palms a subtle sea—where souls crumble, as perished this ink, to come to wingspan that swanic curse; indeed, through shifts, to churn sensation, at theatrical stage widths.

I whiff life, accursed a star, rabid at earth—this soul floret, as bones to guts, while upchucking realities: those planet invaders, designed as thoughts, to wonder this feeling adrift within: this yogi weighting, this cygnet at scales, this soul designating inner voiceprints—to die with love, as casual affairs, while feeling deep satisfaction: this inner scribbling, this mental doodling, our hands bleeding from pressures: this swanic enclave, this tragic octave, this manic spell as lifting silence: or more this conclave, as rounded by edges, this reversed intoxication—where men die, as woman live, this force too terrible for retribution.

 We regroup to exit… 

…it came, Darkness, inverted in treacheries, this tall violent affair: to courses slanted, bathed in perfections, kneeling for crawling into dungeons.  We crevice life, suppressed but laughing, while genius souls conjure Casper: our remote particles, as sentenced steeply, wrestling with head-colds: this velvet swan, as aloof for sore, to curse with light those angular roses….   

Fillet-mignon

…at morning light, this rustling raccoon, as birds dance through winds: this fallen castle, our Trojan cigars, this Maybelline synergy: our daughters laughing; our mothers but mansions; our grandfathers stationed in stillness; this color riche python, this old frenzy, our reputations needled.  I’ve died to love, agonizing love, furious and fatal concerning love: this beaming bulb, our broken binoculars, this barrel of burgundy—as wine dripping, our sober breaths, exhaling our neighbor’s energy.  I flip through Vogue, this teenage atmosphere, pondering our kleptic swan: our roses pressured, our plight-innocence, this Cajun infusion—as canines whistle, while felines whisper, our psychic volts alarming crows: this harmless man, this ferocious power, this devouring essence—where cygnets doodle, as psychs scribble, while swans watch in anticipation.  I dream bigger, as barely catching winds, while giants participate at dripping particles: this esoteric hue, this acrylic reality, this tone shaded in perception—as fretting souls, fritting passions, where husbands nurse essential frost: at panic by cyber, at dungeons by thoughts, at memories about a bowl of cereal—our bowels kneeling, our guts frantic, this vomit destroying suede: while Paris dances, our words to ballet, our cadenzas those nights to silence: if but to thread, as arias revive, this smidgen casted to guillotines.  We coddle masters, this throttle screaming, this furious temper: our days to grays, our evenings to beige, our minutes to gazing at ladybugs: those remarkable images, flooded through logos, our fledglings disrupted by kitsch: if but to sing, this fallible prison, where thoughts capture our Grecian Enterprise: or souls as lavish, disturbed as benighted, while struck a science pleading its divisibility: as pro-glow depicts spirits, where demi-essence insists lights, while quasi-instructed features gods.  I laugh as sung, to sing as sang, fettered for released to freedoms: this violet sunrise, this rainbow personality, this skill set for discourse—as Prada Candy, this wellic gloss, our computers heating wildly—if but for covers, as captured conveyance, to transport an undercurrent—this lively soul, feathered in theoretical(s), able-minded for human.  I remember dimples; this born instinct, goggling our emotions: this Ferris-ambition, that lime-green serpent, this fortress broken by sunrise.  I imagine squad-goals, furious fevers, while coming into personhood: this inner contagion, flaming for drifting, accustomed to a particular jargon: those exotic tulips, that risqué language, this searching for centipedes.  It comes to passions, our ink-stained palms, our shirts splattered with paints: those ceramic dreams, our canvas-madness, such miracle-minded creativity: our foaming interests, this mental conditioner, our shampooed philosophies; indeed, our epistemologies, this fancy with actualities, this graven image for truths: to know but life, as existing in love, a tear bashful about lights: or that feminists nature, reading through subtle projections, realizing this war for equalities: to swaddle kittens, or cuddle puppies, while raiding an ant-colony: those beige features, this love for baboons, as fretting a chimpanzee’s eyes.  I wonder for mentors, as claiming this portion, where artists chime at noetic frequencies: as different souls, aflame political lights, at treasures our pragmatic dispositions: where granny ponders, those absurdities by rights, favored in love but feeling cursed: this soaring spirit, as spacial prisons, perfected through poisons—insofar, our reigns, this trip through pains, to arrive excavating emotional graves: this full person, as alive this life, perfecting our public personas; indeed, for progress, while chiseling our interior, our fireplaces as purely metaphorical—where memories bathe, while forgiven denotes forgotten, but arts to trauma remain our personalities.  I’m soon to lights—reading Plato, demanding myself to release this fusion: as pond-energies, displayed in countenance, this stern for serious intuition: where swans must debate, this agony by sizes, to flight through life depended upon insights: our sources valued, our dreams meshed, our knowledge condensed: this inner selfie, this mental mirror, this tangible picture.                

Personalism

I thought to pains, this crypt for soaring: this indisputable blueprint.  I debated mirrors, with time to see, as sought a feeling this fire.  I saw dreamy intuition, kettle corn revelries, and ice-bars melting with syllables.  I chuckled at self, alive a symphony-bird, listening to cadence: that doctor’s brain, that beige frontal-pose, this electricity stating its fever: as Versace visions, or architectural sadness, remodeling our rumors.  Its un-gripped pliers, remotes gone haywire, and lethargic ceiling fans: this spacial feeling, moving by resonance, to commune so steeply our running(s): if solely at voice, this Buddhist Atmosphere, to tilt a person’s gaze from afar: or yogic pride, such Republic Power, to simmer into three days of Heart-Pyres.  I should to drift, allergic to sentiments, by pure distaste this febrile paradox—where souls adore, this cemented-abstract, a hair flagrant concerning eternity: those taupe ribbons, that pink tie, those suade blue moccasins; insofar, as compelling, that hint of blush, as if a soul has gazed beyond intuitions.  I thought to sunshine, this spiky warfare, and our days to manuscripts: that psyche volt, that psychic lance, that psychiatric maze—where songs are Green, this fusion by Purple, our seams Mahogany-Violet.  We dance this shadow, alert for Cultured, where souls attract foreign Queens: this speeding for details, this Force to Chemistry, as said an aphorism by weary fires.     

   

I could to shift, as behaving coldly, while analyzing at such a distance: this killing of sanctions, while choosing dispositions, aroused by cynical promise; indeed, as falling whispers, our hours to fantasies, where it felt good to exist as centerpiece: that punctured vase, this island lantern, that weeping keepsake: as oaken rivers, and tiny toes, by riches this skin-soled perfume: that chase to dungeons, while brooding his life, as to receive a telegram: this hoof to guts, this roof unbuttoned, and those few lines speaking to existence—whereas, a lion cried, a serpent smiled, while chimpanzees ran frantically; and, nevertheless, this violent texture, to abort our winds, while fleeing this rearview mirror.  I’m vacant knowledge, or swimming wisdom, at essence concerned with connections: our trenchant debuts, this audience screeching, as perspiration bleeds through garments.

It seems unfair, by confessed but dreams, where this becomes desire: this man raking, those leaves blowing, this angst chasing—as barking ensues, this jaguar as pet, this intimidating actuality—where love is cordial, at best, a vexation, while two have met but passing with roadrunners: this embraced chaos, as steaming with ecstasies, while lost this wilderness of coyotes: as catchy webs, to pursue with taint, as painted a smile resenting its passivity; insofar, a curse, as stitched a blessing, while daredevils exist those radical seesaws.

 

We live recruited, flipping through gestations, framed as psychological souls: as saying but fragments, crocheting this portrait, to come to edges desiring sand-abrasions: if but a soul in time, or but a culture to seas, as confined a man to schematics: I’ll dream a feeling, to become said sensation, while cautious a drifting flute; indeed, by Heart-Harps, or a seasonal leopard, captured by [the] nature of his worship: this island soul, featured among myriads, while tinkering with subjective-objectives: at course to minds, to admire this Force, a peg concerned with vulnerability—this shadowing ghost, this host of postmodernity, as witnessed those rays to arcs—as, furthermore, this deep root, as perfected by deep pains, to erect a cedar-tree of fuses: this reaching soul, this permanence that Book, this essence crosswise our Existence: as children leaping, grabbing to leaves, while sustained by steep imagination: this losing of wrenches, to acquire electric tools, where manual concerns are shaved in halves: this picture dreaming, this passion amuck…our persons analyzing this steed to flickers.       

Nighthawks: Light Wings

…unusually low currents, or benighted atmosphere, scratching dry skin: our oiled dynasties, this radical absence, or such by frenzy those myths of yore: to perfect as dying, those inner rumors, this peace disgraced by acceptance: those fabulous feelings, this rabid sensation, this pit so gentle our tender darkness: to scrape gravel, at raccoons with names, at pleasures something so insecure….

We slip through dimness, alive a murky mirror, as never a thought to clearance: those testy whales, our temperaments awry, reading seafaring literature: our quasi-albatross, our visage disrupted, our beds quivering: if but to fledglings, such humors annihilated, wrestling with reality: this unlikely affair, reamed in undergrowth, debating our arrival: our tender compass, our corner rugs, and that particular mental statement; (hereto, this welted debate, this following mirror, our shadows as plural adjectives).  I heard terrors; I smelled perfume; I spoke to this minx: our eyes glistening; our beings as souls; by such insidious overtures—as, notwithstanding, by lurching darkness, such rabid disjunction. 

…mornings are so awesome, as opalescent dungeons, tiptoeing our ocean’s frontier: our palms to sediments, sorting through seaweed, tumbling through this vestibule of mirrors: this armoire ceiling, our memoire quarters, this terrifying elephant: to carry that soul, aborted to guillotines, revived at essence that gentle song—as complex negligence, such by sky-seas, laughing through passion’s melancholia: as unsung elation, while returning to existence, debating this world by mirrors.  It was solid emotion, threshing his brains, while energies became bloodhounds: this sentient vampire; this outliving of candles; such as wax that rebelling excitement—if but for grasping, gutted by feelings, a tear too gracious about sullenness—our harmonic angst, filmed upon mental-stages, as our cauldrons waft about our soul-firing scents: this atypical jazz, our blues to destinies, such a soul unseen, but considered our inner visits.

It becomes by tussling, this roundabout reality, and this determination for correlations: our panic to feel, as acculturated beings, our needs before our boundaries: our fettering kites, our passing by strings, this wire too thin for maturation: those seams to raptures, this jettisoned memory, as but to myths: our passing(s) through fires, our pneuma-instincts, our mathematical infatuations; whereas, youth was brilliance, our intoxications, this iridescent cinema; or hell to souls, as spawned by addictions, fleeing this need to feel normal: our liver with rice; our souls with threshing(s), this silent song sanctioned by pursuits: if but for patience, as eyes to skies, this jasmine turtle: to have for kindness, this radical affection, where love dies an endless wish: our curiosity, framed in terrific agonies, to sit afore keys at riveting agitations; insomuch, as aberrations, this funeral by existence, to capture with lights immortal-convictions.   

We go for deeper, at tensions with ought(s), our inner magistrates: this field forming flames; this vest vetting violence; this crane causing concerns: at terrible cadence, constructed by existence, our films flickering forces: to perish tangents, our composer with clauses, our songs sung silently: those marvelous cries, as consumed by conscience, at souls to mercy: our minds to lions; our souls to creating; this slithering that hisses its venom—where love defines, this edifice of fulfillments, while one becomes smitten by years of inner therapeutics: that disposition, as shaking its knuckles, at commands splaying detriments: as never so pure, or ever such clarity, while those doors depict such progression: our days to algae; those signs as elusive; this person re-filming upon old imprints.      

Fields Are Ripe: Daughters Are Phantasmagorias

I live in It, as pledged to It, thrust for thriving born to tragedies: this morbid soul, this mother about woes, this daughter ensouled: our granny’s cries, this misplaced wall, this gravel to stomachs: if but to sessions, as informed chaos, to meet a psych while terrified for clearance: that psycho-manic, those psycho-waves, this space at peace if receiving as overseer.  I’m cold a feeling, peering at Existence, to capitalize this formable Inquisitor—as maniac lies, or cordial Infusions, laughing as a daughter giggles: this Chicano light, those Spanish pelagic(s), this force for dreams our legendary Oldies: if but to panic, our swanic surprise this steak with onions: this Danish observer, our curse to science, this internal feud: our mystic screams, this Buddhist nature, this Hindu Horizon: as Irish brains, or British flames, to arrive at thunders for Haiti: this plight, buried in media, our churches refusing to rectify poverty.  I’m warm this light, this phantom pushing, this theory at piers: as but to fever, while condemned within, as at wonder a woman doing in spite of consequences: this rabid feeling, as accursed to breath, feuding through anathemas: this mental animus, this feline animas, our courage tugged through Idols—as psycho-fires, this extraordinary debut, fueled for flaming at feral rites: our inner Africa, our sensual breakdowns, as lost to anxieties but not lost to our, Wellbeloved: this interior panic, this angst amongst coyotes, this wolf so close as petting snow-flesh: (Our daughters to perceptions, as feeling distressed, to arrive at a foreign texture: this noetic cygnet, this watchful ally, our parallels seeping into frenzies: or doctors afloat, as steep in mire, to flee as treading upon oceans; where swans dance, at chance to sing, while purposed a wiccan’s dynasty: such reaching riches, such morbid disposition, while at cadence to arrive at this cultic mirror).  I’m conversing feelings, this tug as tangled, while pleading for such innocence: this cavalier person, impassioned by Love, while renewing [The best that we got]; this well grieving, our motions to blank resistance, this wedding-ring as purpose to exist; for days are crumbled, while jaspers are ghosts, where affection dwells in symbolic symphonies: such cautious abrasion, our mornings to passion, our nights to banter: as a.m. churns, to poke for plummeting, our eyes awakened to snoring; indeed, we laugh, as tossed asunder, such by nature our breaths.  I love a feeling, this swanic cosmos, this Paraclete insanity—where gramps laughs, to sense effusion, while granny ponders a light simmering: this pot of gumbo, those honey baked buns, this gallon of homespun chili: as a man conquers, so much his dreams, to enter his home proud of his vices.  I need this love; I frantic this passion; I realize ties are broken with miseries: this falcon screaming, as eagles soar, our magpies envious of such heights: as but to deaths, infringing upon guts, to imagine this perfect pressure: as now we know, this place in fixing, as acclaimed but reaching olden graduations: that first class, dancing as naivety, as proud as a firstborn passage: this man to tears, laughing while wiping snot, peering at something incredible: this foolish hiding, this miracle independence, this essence becoming its vehicle: our rites as friends, to imagine vehemence, where one retreats at any-essence screaming about love.  I’m surely sickened, by this rival within, gazing into yellowish-brown sky-glasses: as needing this feeling, but established a soul, a tinge more at powers.  I arise, chasing—at forward afflictions, too steep to perish blindly: as spent to graves, loving our mothers, at tears it becomes such silence: where thoughts are concerned, as lives are to live, while it feels good to feel esotericism: this tiny woman, at steep quietude, forming for fashioning vicissitudes—if but to augment, dependent upon participation, to gauge with countenance such evolution: where daughters peruse, this one-sighted dream, this myopic force driving our richest pluralities—as mere phantoms, contained in rationalities, stressing for receiving beyond our explanations.                 

Parousia

We hart and pant, our souls to reservoirs, afield a feeling to capture theism—or deists’ tenets, along our prides, knees to marsh buried in exiles: this prosaic bishop, those theological pegs, and this faraway island forging this phoenix: those redwood eyes, this cry for decency, our threshing ekklesia.  We languish catharses, besieged with chaos, at love those blizzards by flamingoes: our runaway arcs, shooting for missing, or those missiles to dungeons: this inner telescope; those partial realities; this feeling we dream—avoiding cargo, pressured daily, to arrive dreading this journey through newness: this winter’s condition, this languid heart-drop, this tinkering through monads—as fused for passion, becoming theoretical, formed in parts by psychiatry—as fringes rattle, this jogging while measuring, a psych as perfected through receptiveness: this classic study, as operative nuances, where college becomes forerunner: this dredge of souls, this captivity at Jericho, this biblic study purported as allegorical: that fine line, as born as Catholic, while forced within to refute [The] Legend of Guadalupe: those mental lounges, this inner café, our sipping with intent to decode through humanity: this mystic sky-emotion, this potent illusion, this realization that whispers resound—as cultic Filipinos, or African musicians, or Protestant Ethiopians—those atom eyes, knitted into syllables, our thoughts becoming our abysses—this fevered labor, drilled by propositions, at wars reviewing pneumatology: those cherry-green souls, as liquids through soil, by far too warm to confess, I feel you.  We forget data—by this operation of brains, receiving new in-motion: as metal-shed fires, or woodshed splinters, becoming as arising but keeping peace: this steep phenomenon, our inner-pollination, our dialogical hearts—formed through dialectics, or hungering through scientific(s), while spaced just enough to adhere to previewed-realities: our oak-wood birds, reading in silence, conditioned against chirping: our Iceberg feelings, frozen about time, censored by this inner trapeze: or this rooted sensation, eschewing Christology, while desiring self as this sole existence of power.  We know for ice-storms, or more for resistance, an ostrich centered in skies: this lonely venture, accursed by destiny, fleeing for reliving such cul-de-sacs—this karnac essence, afire a charm, reading rajah yoga…as born to vices, stuttering in spirit, upon this spectrum of realities: those trying pivots; those miraculous eyes; this curse afforded those seeking Sophia: as boxy feelings, those skyfall sickles, to commune with strangers; while, notwithstanding, this familial furnace, at decorated concentration—those inner Buddhists, as tugging our wits, to envelope so steeply—our waking realities, this plurality chase, where powers are multifold:—that shifting swan, those moody clients, those faces established during privacy—therewith, a scar, this agony of visions, that image catapulting pomegranates.  (We exist beyond words, while utensils are feelings, while both are fire-glaciers: this edifice of ice, this furnace between persons, this melting where particles become pitiful epistemologies—that flagrant claim, as existential religiosity, this section in history focused strictly upon rationalism: our inner utilities, so broad we exclude details, or so pedantic we exclude brainwaves: this beta-dimension, as relative seekers, drawn by this search for absolutes; if but sky-wings, as dreamt a fledgling, to find with patience such soaring: our years to Paraclete; our hours to Infusions; our revamps but rooted in Logos; hereto, this faint insistence, as souls peek at disposition, inclined to suggest human modalities; indeed, this fever as gray, to ponder its vehicle, while amazed at certain exactitudes: those rabid powers, composed in a rabid heart, floating for reaching while composed as lawyers: this beige reality; this jasper rose; our swans to destinies peering into every Word).                          

Sliding Into Home Base

Its miracle praxis, weaving as it pops, by lights this contention: such tiny grains, or particle madness, by adrenaline such rapid heat: our stomachs rumbling, at depression’s visit, reaching for thrusting a glass of tetras: those particles merging, our hearts to wars, this film replayed while discouraged.  I pace thoughts; I rummage blankness; I settle in this Feeling: I run bases; I sprint through lava; I return to this desert-person: as ever this controversy, or ever as humans, at laughter conscious by such.  Sights are instruments; Softballs are metaphors; as Bats become swords: this sitting sensation, moving with time, a bit willing to believe in Intelligence: this person’s image, planted in clouds, as we reach for similar releases: this coaxing by emotions, this fretting by sprits, our luxuries at graces quasi-affected.  Its environmental, or territorial—this psychosomatic phenomenon…this kleptic chaos, this pelagic wall-crane, this session for segmental realities: Our leaps as crucial; Our dreams as Synaptic Gaps; by far this element we confide In: this furious motion, as conditioned in parts, this reluctant dance: our words as huts, flayed in grinders, our Essence provoked as Joshua’s Arm: such crazed sensation, listening by nuances, revved for flights four hours to closing: this roaring picture, this inflated balloon, our faucets as simile’s existence…this patient irritation, fleeing its capture, where guilt ensues. 

I sip coffee, at dreams through freedoms, encouraged by myriad souls: our vocal ceilings, this steep craving, this imaginative reality: our children muddy, our floors squeamish, this board filled with thumbtacks: if but perfection, this second to second chase, while keeping one another at joy: if but inhuman, censored by pains, this life devoid of substance…while losing home-base, at faces beneath eyes, grumbling for mood-shifts: this gleaning space, this familiar Feeling, our innermost souls—at pure concentration, doodling rabidly, or seated calmly forced for activities.  I chase silence, this keen insight, to realize this inner conglomerate—as fraught with persons, those dots speckling, this Essence at delicate observations: our minds recoil, as realized this segment, to move as if happiness rules: those platinum paints, those dimensional brushes, this artistic realization concerning Oneness.

There’s steep observance, this holiday map, this inner nudging through fires: our water with lemons, as successions in time, this game we play with addictions: our refusal to participate, as shifting in lights, to partake as one distant from ingestion: this solace feeling, this killing by roots, this reverberation screaming at usage: if but for selfish, as lost at wars, while pillaging those creative activities…so exposed to feelings, as responding abnormally, plucked, as just enough feathers: this frenzied flapping, disguised seemingly, while those equipped discuss our idiosyncrasies: this rich dysfunction, this trampling anguish, this second with thoughts to efface reservoirs: those mental palm-trees, this wisdom through Asia, those hieroglyphics—if but through Dead Seas, hungry for higher thoughts, to remember this particular emotion—where souls reach, for fretted at emotions, to enjoy those eyes rabid for gifts.                   

Guts: Bleeding Existence

We’re coaxing images, alive our furnaces, as lethargic as snails: our hands bleeding, our legacies mute, this inheritance for once this love: as cloves sparkle, or heavens bend, while jazz echoes softly.  I’m knitting winds, a tare low to circuits, this fortnight to meditations: such melodious times, our downright agonies, this granny becoming her greatest gift: by god-soaring(s), or Porsche revving(s), this fleet of carpenters: our daughters’ brains, those siblings as wisdom, those tenets bleeding our existence: to love as sipping, to fuel through guilt, this gracious dove unfolding by transparencies.  (We die breathing, as perfected in lies, either laughing or set to perish a bit more: our cuts and bruises, this film on repeat, our favorite blues abused at random: those beans with rice, those breasts broiling, those Spanish horderves—where fathers sip, as mothers read, while children rummage their toy boxes: our trips to lights, our ocean views, this path up Venice Beach; indeed, through passions, to meet on Rodeo Drive, as taken for perfect this visage of class: our swans laughing, feeling this inner whetstone, where human affections draw cheers: as men dying, afforded this cross, crocheted into emotions).  I think with rhymes, this mystic elegance, this slit at souls as frantic Paradise: to knit for dreams, this seam at sinners, our winters to pure ecstasies—this notorious fire, this furious volt, or this candent essence seated at centered hearts; indeed, to mysteries, as averting those monsters, this fireball exploding its target—those weeds speaking, our Bureaus watching, this fleet of skilled detectives—to dye his life, forbidden for chasing, while at terrible wonders—this man to Texas, this art to London, this fall as upheavals—where mothers panic, as pondering passions, to laugh as cuddled with Love: if but this feeling, our grandfather’s enquiries, our aunts bleeding grandmother’s essence—to perfect with angst, this steep anxiety, cursed for revealed by psychs: that framed report, those skills to dreams, this mystery as held by few: to cut with silence, but given to children, as known a stepfather's concerns: this soul blotched, this blotching innocence, our days to appeasing tyrants: if but to die, as but to live, a man feeling conflicted.  (I dream about hearts, this endless sanctity, to have for deaths this tragic feeling: our deeds to wraths, our brains to transference, this ability to misdirect an actual character: those drenched successions, this lesson to cores, this flying boulder—as put to flames, this sinning sky, our dreams to a perfect father—where Biorè lifts existence, as L’Oreal paints perfection, while diamonds sprout from dung: this woman at thoughts, as craving with lights, to refuse at theological passions: if but at chances, while love is resistance, to kneel in prayer becoming burning ears: this space in chimes, this simplistic address, our genetics to Ethiopia )…this budlike feeling, as aroused by physicality, while nourishing guilty talents: this wanderlust existence, if but so simple, where honor is often desecrated: as, nevertheless, those few to iron laws, those few to dying causes, those hearts to glorious decay….  [I ate swamps: I felt for healings: this woman did more at months than others perfected in years…as laughs a soul, steep at sorceries, fiddling to readjust our keels: this interrogation, this popular in-voice, our spectators deep at spiritual dimensions: our graves up-gutting, our wrecks as potential silence, our transcension(s) at aches by 3a.m.: this flickering lux, our brass fire-bolts, this amazingly transparent cadence—where souls live, as filled with love, to perish instantly for friends: our winding trumpets, our sinning trombones, this piano splayed from Africa to Danish eyes: this Irish existence, those unfair stereotypes, this arc as invented before essence: those candid eyes, this European cry, our daughters to vinyl floor terrors: our mental kilts; this lumen agitation; this therapist at serious dialectics: if but to exist, as but to fly, our stomachs orphic and rumbling].   

Eyes Splayed: (Fireworks)

We’re heaving guts, remote to voices, flamed for buried: this pyre at finite life, this motion carried in boxes, our curses a thump jetting commissions: this freezer mentality, this actuality, our cadence at rest this torture: if but disease, let us float—this tall stature disguised as ignobility.  I met for Jews, as plush a Gentile, vetted for dying where sensories are blackholes—that rabid texture, that morbid essence, this swan at lakes pouring brains: to cut with vice, this second as demented, where mystics cook breakfast: those canyon meadows, those years to treacheries, this granny aloof a ticket clearing insanities—to break intestines, this floor so precious, a soul so drunk for Jesus.  (I smiled her voice, this gorgeous light, this confessional failing soul): as never to live, while ever we die, to come to grips greeting our second lives—this vex bleeding, this text screaming, our cygnets remote a breath torn: if but design, this fractured venture, our telic love-war—as so much, a monster, frantic with yogis, if but to surpass a bird with matches: this latent scar, this love we held, this core scraped for damaged at life—that Buddhist rose, those outsoaring therapists, this need to believe contrary to facts: our gentle magazines, this florid fantasy, our coldness so warm to infections: as surmising wounds, to infer kindling, while eluding this sphinxly texture—our brains ashore, those pelicans plucking, this cordial art, at distance, we muse; insomuch, as rendered, this lurking shadow, this season for grading souls—our alligator whirlwinds, this aware drifter, this acute zeal praising this swan: those wrestling siblings, this conscious status, our banks flushed with green dynasties: to hold for rapture, as threshed for blood, esteemed for falling awakened for wailing—that lotus peek, those saber-tooth-dragons, this dinosaur faith-fire.  I love as ruined, to die as ruined, to live as ruined—this plank bleeding, this crocodile laughing, those spiders webbing a sense of control—where parents glean, this foresighted dimension, to hold with panic our piano keys: this violin, struck at voices, to remember a precious emblem: our grandfather-hearts, this morbid detective, this fleet of pictures; indeed, to planets, or flutes to passions, to kiss as ruined through darkness.  I feel presence, this looming dimension, to exit at times feeling boxed with grass: this seizing by moments, this mesto enchantment, our children semi-religious—as quasi-mayflowers, or hectic rulers, this theologian at desires this venture: that cold wave, as textured at seconds, to feel with love this christic affair: (I come to aches, as witnessed for dying, to realize truths become vehicles of freedom: while reading Deuteronomy, or Isaiah’s cries, bleeding through Jeremiah—those major prophets, strung at strings our Lamentations, to die with Love—this sandal witness, to come to such abstracts).  I heard a voice, while laughing at dementias, jingling a Jewish symbol: to grip with time, this inner artistry, where targets run forever—if vice is good, this aggressive parallel, this inner canopy—inasmuch, as callous, but purely curious, while roaring as Lioness: this face to brains, this brains to face, a tear desolate filled with growling: our disguised souls, wrenching for writhing, at tyrannies slaying goats.                

Tradition Sprouts Reality

We fever anxieties, pictured as aliens, received with tender mercies: We dine at noon, wavering as oceans, reading cartoons.  It becomes life, threading essays, with essence admiring Hanukkah; while candles flicker, this symbol as tears, such religiosity infused with sorrow.  We triumph pains, our genetics woven, this crosswise affair—as knitting trumpets, or thrumming passions, our succinct flutes.  It could be agonies, threshed by butterflies, reworded as pioneers—that mystic element, our inner temples, such as spinning this cultic dimension.     (Wax at stillness: bulbs at radiance: this film leaping from pages; hereto, are rustic roots, as sandy valleys, our ephods wheezing).     We desire freedom, this complex reality, while reciting demarcations: this fuel to exist, this ability to discern, those realities harnessing freedom—at determined junctures, or proposed realities, where freedom must exist as monitored: this civil statute, as censored notions, laughing as relying upon freedom chains.     Hither we live, as discussion forms, gazing upon historical art: this piece for debates, our cold teas, as a spurt of lemon invades our eyes: those dramatic characters, fused by immortality, our legacies determining our resistance: if noted at flights, to seep into caves, affected by Literature: our idols to rest, our best souls forward, such casual nausea.  Its cold harmonies, or specific rituals, this fleet of intelligent missiles: that print escaping, as leaping outward, while sullen investigation ensues; notwithstanding, this journey of lights, a sale weary concerning agencies—this inward territory, this interior empiricism, our experience determining our allegiance: (by smoky clouds, or fire filled skies, our morning rainbows—while birds muse, as snails complete each journey, while, too, we examine vestibules: those silent rooms, those mythical mirrors, such by chills realizing essence).

 

…we zoom into zests, our critical enthusiasms, revved in silence: this film, aforesaid, becoming concretized, our legacies seeping into bright-minded-souls: this space by access, this reality conquest, our instruments becoming mental imageries: this shared dominion, while scraped for currents, to invest in miracles: those souls as energies, lathered in essence, sprinkling lavender dreams: our trembling spirits, reliving this ecstasy, as one cursed until acquitted: those trekking roses; or vocal waters; this soul at holy manifests: as but to fly, while grounded in substance, to exist as one contained in tradition….   

 

It becomes faith, or disposition, or orientation—where visions clash or territories go for wars: (this young physical, as an old reality, caved in sectional pits: this thing with dice, this flaming goblet, or human life sprinkled behind ears: to dance as sacrificed, this terse admittance, listening as kittens cry for mother: as remote adults, this controversial fuse, while agency looms as pure conjecture: to love as lost, or levy as lunatics, while humbled a soul protecting dynasties: this raving phoenix, at casual affections, while listening to this lute afore hearts: this tore affliction, as carried in vain, while steep for bridges this intimate currency: that room to panic, this straightjacket affair, this padded floor cave: where thoughts wrestle, as claiming dominance, while ants trickle through synaptic gaps).     We live such voltage, rustling through shrubberies, depicted as images upon canvas-brains: our music threshing, this force pushing, our images becoming bilingual—this twofold reality, this place as dying, while daisies sprout our egresses: to return to harmony, if but a second in time, while something prepares for this rifted journey: our rites screeching, as chalk plummets brains, where it felt tragic to feel so alive: our coldest waves, our warmest flames, this space as sutured but leaking reality.       

We Sin Passions

I loved as losing, to reside as winning, this fair estate while absent: our fried gizzards, our sodium noodles, our diced onions; where Love would panic, such to perish arts, scathed, naked, and fleeing.  I ached for passion, this immortal essence, sipping wine spiced with gin: this mortal laughing, oblivious to justice, as never a soul to believe in; hitherto, this stress and strain, our shoulders slouching, this couch murmuring, our mirrors refuting our reflections; where song dissipates, as demigods distract, while ghosts appear to sorrowed eyes: this feline fire, as feral flames, featured as fluorescence: our seconds to harps, that whirling hex, this heavy and heated lust wagon—or flagons by humiliation, this charm as mocked, this whiff as treacherous: to love as dying, veering through structures, as tyrannies thrusting one last irony: to side-die wisdom, fretted by intuition, and so tender our keepsakes: those chorus eyes; those thundering savannahs; our idyllic violins—as cultures for deaths, impassioned by graves, struck, and abandoned to love.

We sense destruction, but too far invested, laughing, while gripping ribs: this inrush passion, doting violence, as faultless as sheep: this slaughtered essence, that dazzling cruelty, if but mutual agreement: such winsome mane, that scent by Life, this effulgent reality; as flawless derriere, as matrix thighs, by complex negligence: if but to heights, those surreal gazelles, such lissome framework—as years to malice, assumed as wicked, irrigated by subtle thoughts: therewith, this throbbing luggage, this briefcase by Madness, as pure cosmic affection.   

It comes as legacies, a few trysts to brains, this reticent beauty: our opened windows, our wafting incense, those dreamlike palms—while reaching softness, our oiled flesh-hearts, this spell to dreams as prisons; those steep imprints, those metallic eyebrows, that perfected skin-texture—where courtesans laugh, while geishas cry, this thin layer by exotic arts—where moons would quake, as soul-violence explodes, while set to erase a decade of core aggregates: hereto, such silent wretchedness, such aesthetic undulation, as such romantic undergrowth.   

I retreat with love, this hypnotic county, our orchards rabid with growth: that ruined skirt, those dragging hems, this thread as attached to intestines—those ravished sessions, those tile epitomes, this antidote as scratched and ingested: as pure anarchy, this vest as rare to sights, while Proverbs parades before our audience: our sour axioms, as rich with tribalism, our seconds to outsoaring guilt: to have that essence, this credence called, Flesh, this zeal as esteemed justice.   

Dear Precious,

We come to silence, evil at roots, consumed by acrobatics: this paining back, this warlock inheritance, this mystic castle—as looming deepness, or poignant flagrances, so skinny absorbed by Life: this fueled feud, placating surfaces, while an anchor tugs into turmoil: as burnished souls, laughing by anguish, falling for heaving this relic spear.  It was Chinese love, or Japanese rice, struggling through Thailand—as New Zealand caves, and turquoise waters, our neighbor partaking of our delicacies: this Asian Power, this Negro Charm, this Blackness merging with Euro-Asia: if but perfection, this token escapade, this sweltering furnace as caged: our taboo cries, our moments to coffee, those similar sites as out-measured: as vocal pieces, unveiled and screaming, our veneers exposed by tyranny—this evermore gambol, this taupe pearl, our fantast phantoms: as died a segment, losing familiarity, our phantoms appearing at mirrors: this slight disdain, for one in self, while snug a scar upbraided by existence.  I picture essence, this fragile ego, this luminous centerpiece—as fulgent sanctums, or treacherous vices, a suture but adhesive tape—those watery falls, this London agony, our bleedings to outsoar our screams: such privy chaos, this friend as well-informed, arriving for protecting this fragile hurricane: to love as needing, while broken those months, to arise a smile shimmering glitter: as fresco passions, or cadenza climaxes, invested within this poisonous aria—as but a soul, conflicted by desires, at love a tender voice: those formless swivet(s), this inmost fortune, our mirrors becoming blatant: to wrest our minds, as demanding adherence, threshed by a series of mistakes: this verve waning, this smoke offensive, this succinct duality—where mothers are fens, imbuing daughters, while slipping into twilight; or reasons to live, exercised as specious, this battle for survival: as feeling deaths, experienced at truths, and those fatal responses: so anguish weaves, as steep this upheaval, wavering for needing to feel pure.  We’re tyro souls, afflicted by pythons, staring at transparent evasiveness: that crumbling invite, those perceptions to graves, this person holding for feeling lonely—this need for perfection, as offering imperfection, while ignoring this typical oxymoron—or inner paradox, that latent ulcer, those mental abrasions—as fighting for years, afflicted Alzheimer’s, headlong into affairs; as, nevertheless, this need to win, where truths discourage apologies: this hapless man, pitted in Africa, running with cheetahs, (but never fast enough to escape reality): our swanic inheritance, as soaring through channels, while affected through osmoses: this guileless session, those guilty travesties, this typical fawning while afore riches—to exclude prose, while frowning upon poetry, this thetic realization—as hating Love, while needing Love, this effulgent catastrophe.  

      

Dear Swan,

Your mother’s delicate, but established, a lantern to breezy spirits: this legacy dripping, this titanium liquid, this hummingbird at my door—this feeling of energies, this volt to songbirds, to see them flee in anticipation.  I laugh a fiddle, un-riddled for damaged, peering into this coming reign: our psychs to measures, our therapists to psychs, this method as underpinning realities: our daughters to wars, our grandparents vigil, this stepfather cooking his soul to flowers—as bent for wreckage, restored through childbirth, flying for horizons our brains chanting.  It ravishes hearts; this feud as grieving; this sickness as demanding such tortures: as God’s affair, crumbled for wholeness, to realize this steep resistance: as never forgiveness, where too much was given, this theologian at errors: insomuch, our scriptures, this need to read it, if but to lay claims on our controlling universe: that passionate arc, those rivets to aches, this brooch speaking—our inner demigods, floating to redeem infraction, at chorus this brook of spiders.   

Mystic Naidu

We sense fire, this explosive cadence, our souls searching mind-lights: this casual death, at essence with ousia, living this apophatic existence: our brains spacial, this telic fuse, reversed for inverted—this piercing emotion, thrust to carpet, gutted for wounds bleeding insanity: our radical voice-steps, this soul-printed ecstasy, our grannies rapid with terrors: this ethic screaming, this moral emphatic, our energies recited by ear-waves—as cut with gristle, roaming through marrow, tensed for shocked, dying this length-age.

 

We rapture at love, revealed as scientists, this metaphysical cataphatic—as onions with steaks, or greens with yams, this mystic catnip—to see for faces, this foreign exchange, a group of phantoms in royal garbs—where feelings erupt, pressured by countenance, at few those catastrophic memories; herewith, this social anxiety, this place called, Disturbance, our fritters drenched in sugarcane; thereto, this syrupy jam, our occulted eyes, this inner molasses—afire with torments, warring against guillotines, laughing by rubrics devastated by Faith.

We tore Existence, rummaging numerologies, seeping into agape: this running swamp, our palms to mayflies, our hearts to oaken nature: this flight as lethal, to recondition souls, where Love seemed so perfect: those jasper imprints, that existential camera, this soaring, fraught by electricity: those steep pains, as hungered for Realities, captured for fleeing again to deserts.

I loved us, seeing but flames, adored for cursed affected by deaths; hitherto, this miracle justice, too famished for morsels: our hankering minds, bleeding confessions, falling for rising those mystic chimes: our guts heavy, our souls to measures, this pressure coming with frantic fires—that dripping-volt, this essence at wars, our ghosts at transference—to die as living, or living as deceased, cultured for this atypical Armageddon.  I float as scarred, or scarred as floating, at thoughts this amoral escape; to figure with love, this inverted reality, where harming self becomes essential: this foolish leniency, this amoral debate, this feeling rushing for destruction: if but to perish, to feel as Immortal, fleeing for revived brought to Numen:

…such incredible justice, as majestic illness, formed for failing arising at perfections: our casual flickers, this morning to truths, this personhood distressing presence: our broken lessons, those times at sessions, this aromatic air-spirit; wherewith, this affection, these castled emotions, this rook afore this brain-space; indeed, colored in jasmine, this sun fleeing, as churned this mental furnace: our bodies writhing, our essence arriving, this second our eyes to this darkness within.

I sought to furnish, as burnished leather, mystified by un-purchased serenity: that steep sorrow, as dissipates with wisdom, a soul fleeing through mirrors: that outward persona, that tragic contour, this reality warring with an inner lesion: to come to faces, warring at chimes, wondering if Logos was manic: herewith, are thoughts, our borderline freedoms, effective for catapults. 

      

It was feelings; those contorted cloud-vices, distorted as promised rain: this Native soul, absorbed in ecstasies, our spirits converging upon experience: this resistant claim, this Mystic Force, our substance enveloped by ineffable Realities: our mirrors but ghosts; our sentence but realism; this heart-sky as exospheres: to thrust through roses, our petals as speeches, this garland as mouth-myrrh: our treasured vase; our trinkets for fires; those souls to ingestions.

Become Dragons

I was a boring lad, at havoc’s life, perusing upon beauties—this radical fire, baptized so early, our fathers' sprinkling water: this sight for mention, that mysterious soul, so distant our lives.  I saw paraphernalia, crushed glass instruments, and incurred vehement wraths: this casual nonchalance, pitted in memories, pausing at a cherry patch: those loquat frenzies, this strawberry lemonade, this box of Pecan Sandies; indeed, our spines, livid through adventures, our living-rooms fraught by addicts.  I nibbled plums, frozen for tarnished, adapted to ghetto realities—that backgammon laughter, those dominoes slamming, this scent as abrasive concerns: that inner child, destroyed for ruined, perceived as this future warrior—for thoughts were  battles, this essence secerning Blackness, this unstable affair—where moods shift, at mention those roots, accustomed to something controversial.  We shift.

I realized passions, disguised in formalness, while alert this fire arising within: those liquid spirits, this trip to New Zealand, this Amish as latent religiosities: if torn through flights, examining features, at perils this moral philosophy: this gusset treadmill, those brackets closing, this frantic behavior: those spoken rhythms, that inner cadence, where priests must repent.  Shift!

I adore feelings, as losing feelings, a tad bit hebetated: this inner poltergeist, this zeitgeist affair, those lethargic seconds at pure clarities: our tender dynamics, this future to existence, this cave as ablaze’d a current’s frustration: this seeping smile, that steep resistance, this feeling as one invading—this marshy county, those blueberry novels, this romantic high-life—where Love is vocal, while adored as silent, to reckon this need to hear explosions.  I’ve said little, perfected at this, perchance—our ripples as reservoirs enhancing perceptions: this reached acuity, that palm of energies, our songs so sad this second at happiness: as pure concerns, this voice as rivets, this snapshot perfecting but glimpses: if but to life, as loves a fool, those years to casual persistence.

…and love becomes roses, tilted in vases, our tables that space of petals—as falling ambitions, reamed for passions, at membrance this looming whale…as time is crucial, as love by failing, to render affections as remote green pastures: this fluid dream, as strutting insanities, to feather with life this disappointment…those mental oases, those grand performances, this want to perish as feeling ecstatic: our inner coolness, poked for prodded, our linchpins tampered by forces: this feral gown, running through russet tulips, reaching for palming hummingbirds—that arc splayed, slaughtered in fragments, testing for surprising our awakening seconds.  We Shift.  

We say so much, as surprising our overviews, where precision struggles to breathe: that juicy watermelon, those sugary honey-buns, this apple as to appease our conscienceness; but truth to Love, this ladybug beauty, this feminine bud—as flowers a tear, dripping into ears, our frantic responses—those short molehills, this extravagant centerpiece, our seconds to fire-caves: to see with love, this tinge bleeding, as erupting honesties—as, nevertheless, sifted at turns, pursuing something harmonious: our days to flying, as feeling pains, where a warm embrace caresses our spirits: this languid voice, those sky-carnet eyes, that dimension protruding, therein: while never for feelings, as forever to brains, while something operates within: that second at Cancun, those hours at airports, this returning while feeling good concerning practices: our souls to canyons, peering at Promised Land, but fortified from entrance.  We season this feeling, alive with laughter, so exposed that fancy becomes measureable: our days to Italy, our thoughts to Water Falls, this essence in lights as remote passions.       

Fire Consolidated

I was stunned, looking at genius, a tear petrified; as believing dreams, while caged inventions, to romanticize about country eyes: those rabid hips, that disguised pearl, those languishing lips: if but to fail, while told about love, divorced from his feelings. 

We dine at hills, our picnics laughing, while inviting sluggish vowels; indeed to deaths, our gothic screams, this fist to moons, ablaze’d this scything Cross:

those voice extinctions, this banda arc, our melodramatic minutes: as cadenza vices, this drop to cells, our chorus duet; where Love confessed, this violent father, this mental leitmotiv.

Our silent hymns, our alms to redemption, this doorman guarding purgatory: as a daughter sings, feeling soulful, battling those mayfly marshlands: our totems upon high, our picturesque dungeons, where rasps bleed kleptic brains: that man dying, that woman at gurneys, this nib to aches effaced by pure nakedness: to wonder for passions, while struck for deaths, affixed, reciting this amoral ecstasy; as never for agonies, pledged to tyrannies, at Love, about wildfires.

I shift at lights, a moment to thoughts, living this soul-sung dynasty—as grandfather’s legacy, or grandmother’s travesty, unsung, sleeping upon negative concrete: this homeless pain, to sense a seed, while buffing his coffin: our cryptic castles, at love for passions, afflicted, leering into deserted eyes. I caught by Jasper, to fumble through Casper(s), a tear restricted, pleading for answers: where Love was Jasmine, as pollen to bees, ignescent by sunbeams.

I sense a feeling, this rugged warrior, at tears, abated through silence—this captive cedar, this chest by waves, our communication as pure communion: if but this season, I’ll cherish, Theresa(s), a texture enthralled by Huldah: our black oak, this centered patience, our tussock-cloth-mindcaves—insomuch, a fever, our hearts to sundown—as born through fires surviving our lots, sprinkled upon mandolins: this mental flux, this graving grout, as grogged but lucid a wretched scar.

I heard a swan, pitching mortar, shod for unshod flipping galaxies.

We dance this current, feeling hungry, ignoring teardrop sensations: this winded ballad, our years to billiards, to return as flaming through oceans: those glorious thighs, this high to heaven, our portrait stippled with sore affections: this soul cleaving, that woman kneading, our daughters laughing while vacuuming tear-prints: if but our crypts, as torn our tombs, this knot to perfections lingering as demands.

Such pictureless lusts, this inner splendor, to realize this fury of lies—as but to dream, while crooked for sights, at vengeance this mental theologian: that breathless ache, as feeling lively, afraid that this family might relapse: as wars kill, dragging inflections, where purses drop flooded with paraphernalia: that sickly memoire, this unbolted feeling, those passions, at once, taboo: where rooms are cagey, as senses are frittered, as souls are at inmost abbreviated: too die with life, as life unto death, this nightlight as nightlife exaggeration.

I do remember, this strong force, as relentless concerning sobriety—this inner aria, that golden lamp, this grandmother worthy of pure elations; as privy a soul, this electric vault, where sipping became a vicious ally: this man to brains, this sanctum to flames, this formless psych-life.