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).
