It’s difficult, Amore: at terrible
patience, or mirrors to mental cartoons—as laughs a maniac, restored to
flourish, while whispers drag through darkness: by reckless chaos, or haphazard
dreams, petting ferrets at our bedside; or taught by deaths, this country
buffoon, loved by a chantress: this fuse adorned, at weary pinecones, fetching
a squirrel’s tail: if but endeavors, we heart-chime magic, at cadence this
breath-river.
Its fir-mysticism, or languid passions,
fueled by this hangover: our actions smiling, our dreams evolving, this archaic
reality—where senses explode, this gutty terror, while Love swoons: if banished
a scar, I’d receive a wound, while at attractions as if newly but gems: this
fabulous feeling, while axed at frontiers, pursuant prophetic pressures!
...we
exist as winds, such by manic facets,
smelting embedded dimensions—as purely imperfect, soaring through forests, at
tender oceans: this cultic ape, this wild display, that uncouth genteelness…as
miracle souls, while to retreat to deserts, conversing with camels; and yes for love, as no for flesh, where life becomes this inner chamber: this third
person, our anchors to neuron-caves, fiddling through myriad intestines: that
frantic starfish, this inner aquarium, our living-room excursions: those
polished toes, those sandpapered heels, those nurtured follicles: indeed, to
laugh, as feeling purities, to see as if sights were acidic-phantasms.
In terrible straits, this daily
insistence, at membrance this inner contagion—as, moreover, this flippant air,
at once, to emerge as silence, where Love was abandoned, as abandoned
first-hearts, as if time would excuse our reigns; while, nevertheless, to
distance feelings, while carved by sickles, fleeing for flying as frozen in
passions—that morbid affection, while famish for fires, laughing for wounded
kissing meerkats.
It becomes us, this garden of footprints, this pointing flamingo—where mother
lives, seething with secrets, this sphinxly existence: as tragic friends, above
this jib as jiving, nurturing our insecurities: while thrust a scream, pitching
popcorn upon ponds, requesting that geese answer questions: of course, a smile,
dialing this current, our phones at radiant alchemy—where father sifts,
threshing wheat, knitting spiritual fibers: this love for madness, as kissed
his silence, to tussle through mental images: those fitted jeans, that
conscious estate, our faculties to static—as if to die, wrestling with angels,
our hips concretized.
We exist
as miracles, at essence those travesties, loved for chosen—that cherished
inheritance, at endless feelings, where persons establish legacies: those
diamond emotions, as filtered disasters, feral for famished affections: those
nights to passion, as if struck by illness, at acrobatics—to seize with
ecstasy, such winsome dreams, while at guts churned, thrown to belching:
