…unusually low currents, or benighted
atmosphere, scratching dry skin: our oiled dynasties, this radical absence, or
such by frenzy those myths of yore: to perfect as dying, those inner rumors,
this peace disgraced by acceptance: those fabulous feelings, this rabid
sensation, this pit so gentle our tender darkness: to scrape gravel, at
raccoons with names, at pleasures something so insecure….
We slip through dimness, alive a murky
mirror, as never a thought to clearance: those testy whales, our temperaments
awry, reading seafaring literature: our quasi-albatross,
our visage disrupted, our beds quivering: if but to fledglings, such humors
annihilated, wrestling with reality: this unlikely affair, reamed in
undergrowth, debating our arrival: our tender compass, our corner rugs, and
that particular mental statement; (hereto,
this welted debate, this following mirror, our shadows as plural
adjectives). I heard terrors; I smelled
perfume; I spoke to this minx: our eyes glistening; our beings as souls; by such insidious overtures—as, notwithstanding,
by lurching darkness, such rabid disjunction.
…mornings are so awesome, as opalescent
dungeons, tiptoeing our ocean’s frontier: our palms to sediments, sorting
through seaweed, tumbling through this vestibule of mirrors: this armoire
ceiling, our memoire quarters, this terrifying elephant: to carry that soul, aborted
to guillotines, revived at essence that gentle song—as complex negligence, such
by sky-seas, laughing through passion’s melancholia: as unsung elation, while
returning to existence, debating this world by mirrors. It was solid emotion, threshing his brains,
while energies became bloodhounds: this sentient vampire; this outliving of
candles; such as wax that rebelling excitement—if but for grasping, gutted by
feelings, a tear too gracious about sullenness—our harmonic angst, filmed upon mental-stages, as our cauldrons waft
about our soul-firing scents: this atypical jazz, our blues to destinies, such
a soul unseen, but considered our inner visits.
It becomes by tussling, this roundabout reality, and this determination for correlations: our panic to feel, as acculturated beings, our needs before our boundaries:
our fettering kites, our passing by strings, this wire too thin for maturation:
those seams to raptures, this jettisoned memory, as but to myths: our
passing(s) through fires, our pneuma-instincts,
our mathematical infatuations; whereas, youth was brilliance, our
intoxications, this iridescent cinema; or hell to souls, as spawned by addictions, fleeing this need to feel
normal: our liver with rice; our souls with threshing(s), this silent song
sanctioned by pursuits: if but for patience, as eyes to skies, this jasmine
turtle: to have for kindness, this radical affection, where love dies an
endless wish: our curiosity, framed in terrific agonies, to sit afore keys at
riveting agitations; insomuch, as aberrations, this funeral by existence, to
capture with lights immortal-convictions.
We go for deeper, at tensions with ought(s), our inner magistrates: this
field forming flames; this vest vetting violence; this crane causing concerns:
at terrible cadence, constructed by existence, our films flickering forces: to
perish tangents, our composer with clauses, our songs sung silently: those
marvelous cries, as consumed by conscience, at souls to mercy: our minds to
lions; our souls to creating; this slithering that hisses its venom—where love
defines, this edifice of fulfillments, while
one becomes smitten by years of inner therapeutics: that disposition, as shaking
its knuckles, at commands splaying detriments: as never so pure, or ever such
clarity, while those doors depict such progression: our days to algae; those
signs as elusive; this person re-filming upon old imprints.
