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).