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].