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.
