Monday, December 25, 2017

Tipsy Whirlwinds, or Raving Floor Beds

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… 

…it came, Darkness, inverted in treacheries, this tall violent affair: to courses slanted, bathed in perfections, kneeling for crawling into dungeons.  We crevice life, suppressed but laughing, while genius souls conjure Casper: our remote particles, as sentenced steeply, wrestling with head-colds: this velvet swan, as aloof for sore, to curse with light those angular roses….   

Immemorial times those feelings affected by lusts.

    It rarely falls as it should. In forcing syntax, one dies. So precedented; one dream those days, and nerves were fretting. Affected by l...