…as tender pressure, this electric skirt,
our shivers bleeding sulfur: our nightingales, that songstress empire, this
rolling for folding as Asian our tears: those years to playwrights, this
enveloped agony, those yellow feelings…as one should ask—of pure dementias, to
return by sculptures: this villain ecstasy, this Northern Kingdom, our
sentiments bottled in rare rejection: as laughed a soul, to cross by waves,
abandoned to that farewell bliss. We nurture
fancies, those gracile, delicate features, born through travesty, anxious this
fire to darkness—whereto, that intimate glance, as chanced a fool, so steep in
soul-bedded blues: this ache to touch, as nibbled an earlobe, to arise dying
for leaving; as never by voices, this tragic legacy, this muddy white
gown. We personalize, as skilled
ventriloquists, a songbird whistling at his mirrors: this pale sun, this
insistent face, those drifting lullabies—to harvest come spring, or plant
passed winter, as never such purest of berries: those oatmeal eyes, that casual
gait, those loose-fitting Gucci’s—at terrible cadence, alive at 3 a.m.,
cornered for captured headed to exile: this luxury lake, this ludic locke, this
underpinning what if—at accords with
life, this cultured begonia, this lotus eye: our anxieties to jars, our dreams
to bars, this liquor as losing its substance; where mother aches, as seeing
sons, this space for monsters. We could
to passions, as passing into Xanadu, while thrust apart so violently: this
vehement excitement, those trips to wards, this hallway melting as if one
popped acid; as, nevertheless, this intimate essence, so pure, but too natural:
as torn a misprint, this membrane haywire, our receptors disguising those
misfires; in tears to laugh, as maniacal softness, this armoire floating
midair: those words we need, as hard for
winning, at eyes pleading forgiveness—that human presence, killing
Cinderella, while a harlot becomes honest: this fuel for brains, as never
distrusted, where it feels good to sit in silence. Its cosmo affections, low lights, this
spinning globe—as sure to taste, as pure to ingest, as sudden this tug for
kissing; by which, are flowers, this hour to reflect, as reflexive saints: this
nun with child, this priest to bishops, this jejune soul—at terrible climates,
feeling for wounded, affected with numbness able to render a subtle essence: as
birthed through violence, this low frequency, this effective outlook: that
mourning smile, those benighted eyes, this tremendous glow; where forces dwell,
as formed upon high, but never such beauty to caress our eyes. Its honor lethal, this inner physician, those
gravitating intestines: to up-chuck sadness, cloaked in tunics, our laps filled
with vomit: this cold night, that sunny moon, our thoughts measuring our
integrities; as, notwithstanding, this soothing invite, a place discouraged by
nonchalance: if but to deface us, if
but ever this chase, as tyranny proves this lesson to hearts. I ran a temperature: I searched incessantly:
I wrestled this intestinal bear; where birds are chirping, women are dancing,
if but for human we feel naked. It comes
with dying: it comes with living: we perish while breathing enlove with fragments;
or more this soul, this partner as fluorescent, this bliss as morbid: to affect
waves, after washing vomit, our nerves to souls where hell has castles. It tore through walls, this velvet enchant,
this pile of undergrowth: our vanilla scents, that mahogany blush, that feature
in lies where one is blank: as torn for winking, this proverbial tale, while
lost to seconds arising: that innocent deception, those small gestures, this
calculated spontaneity—where spirits linger, as effective emotions, our finish
lines serving as entrances: those years to aloofness, that millisecond to
humans, this space as bleeding this head-rush.
I feel with passions, a tear desensitized, living an outrageous paradox:
at late night suppers, or early morning rituals, at tears we met so structured.
