Aha!: this trinket element, afar for wide
those darling eyes: if but for deaths, this flesh to bone, as begun this
spawning web: our kleptomanias, as inner vices—to thrust by sudden a sound:
this man dying, for living in Vogue, this anxious schizophrenia—as tossed to
swords, garnered in agonies, at love this lone soldier. I ache with parents, this child so dear,
while appearance becomes tragic: our achy grains, this fueled flame, as romance
seeps into treasure boxes: our cursed forever(s),
our evening evermore(s), this
flint to souls as crafted a skilled revival: to perish as friends, while loving
as parents, this silky index through mane—where mothers tremble, as fathers
retreat, to come to passion as fully present.
We pain for dying, at movies disinterested, at souls for sheer this
release—as fathers shiver, this captive image, to want with light this fabulous
alpha.
Let’s go astray…
…I knew as younglings—this fantastic
reverse, at birth seeking this flower: our tulips burning, our laughs as
remorse, our faces fleeing while standing stillness: this reckless us, forbidden from existence, peering at
aphoristic dynasties: our soft music, this blind seeking, to abort but none: as
casual fools, or erotic roses, this shrubbery by aces: as green pastures, or
wheat willed fields—those tetras
poses, that Rubik’s intellect, this I.Q. battle at chivalries with existence—as
spacial ghosts, or grandparent wits, where such remains subject to abortion;
indeed, to cuts, flipping through bruises, where laughs offend butterfly ears.
I felt a swan, this day to miracles, as
none deigned this lot of praxis: those old clichés, to have awakened as
sameness, while claiming as triumphant—those burgundy glasses, this silver
snake, our harmony depended upon submission: as flavored fools, engraved in
tombs, speeding for racing up Venice.
I come to lights, this thin creation, a
tear radical to disguises: as viewing self, while recruiting others, to learn
with force this roundabout invention—where swans shiver, as struck by phantoms,
bleeding for living effused through verses: that tall tale, that wretched
feeling, this surprise as afflux a thousand dimensions—to see with love, this
inner redemption, to part with palms a subtle sea—where souls crumble, as
perished this ink, to come to wingspan that swanic curse; indeed, through
shifts, to churn sensation, at theatrical stage widths.
I whiff life, accursed a star, rabid at
earth—this soul floret, as bones to guts, while upchucking realities: those
planet invaders, designed as thoughts, to wonder this feeling adrift within: this yogi weighting, this cygnet at scales, this soul designating inner
voiceprints—to die with love, as casual affairs, while feeling deep
satisfaction: this inner scribbling, this mental doodling, our hands bleeding
from pressures: this swanic enclave, this tragic octave, this manic spell as
lifting silence: or more this conclave, as rounded by edges, this reversed
intoxication—where men die, as woman live, this force too terrible for
retribution.
We
regroup to exit…
