I’m Scooby eyes, adrift a feeling, killed
for destroyed at our kitchen trestle: that steep sensation, as living but
deceased, a mere joy to myriads: this cycle bleeding, our fires stirring, our
helms explosive: herewith, miracle touches, a kick to heels, our voltage thrust
through soil: this harvest by Casper, our resilient, Daffy Duck, this
gray-white Bunny refusing execution—as dreamt a victim, peering at Yosemite
Sam, amused by this Buffoon. I cried
purple, gripping pelvis’ guts, seized for captured at rafters through hooks:
this silent admission, our winter moccasins, this handkerchief adorned by
emotions: if but Victoria, to adore Adonis, this wealth but secretions haunted
by black blood. We passion oak, our
owl-skies, our bowels dripping into purgatory—this rabid nun, our seductive
vices, purposed for pleasurous deaths: by which, we die, while existence lives,
our paradox, plunging our brain-aches.
I feel essence, this sad moon, this
jasper-black-soul; wherefore, mother panics, sensing distress signals, a tare
defeated our finish-lines: therewith, our clocks bleeding, our palms grieving,
our grandmothers to mafia abandonments: that jasmine garland, that jester’s
parade, our courts filled with untamed lions: to laugh as dying, seated by
psychoses, while conscious to see this new self arising: that coquettish smile,
that bashful tear, this jittery affair by playing Wheel of Fortune: as living
spices, our Cajun agendas, where swans gesture for permanence: this joy through
pains, this pain through joys, a man to souls our first journey complete. I laugh a slither, but mere a print, while
internally minutes were examined: this furious fool, this soldier as sentenced,
this space at goosed down comforters: whereto, was love, this pink infatuation,
this place destroyed.
We know essence, this graduation, to
determine sources: as often self, or womanly edifices, or clinical
participants—or lessons those thieves, by too many to examine, where monopoly
resides in human contagions: our seconds to rabies, our minutes to fathers, our
hours to mothers. I space-cadet this
fire, at loses this soul, while seated admittedly upon quickened-skies: this
sinking uplift, while downward this down-rise, to shift with inner
mood-pigeons: this baboon-treasury, this affair by patience, this woman too
keen to demand loyalties. I laugh at
self, realizing this immortal-game, fleeing at brains chasing meerkats: that
fabulous story, as tragic curses, to pledge with life this retreat into
success: as mere a force, to attain a key, while Love Desires. Its taupe leaves,
burgundy rain, while addicted to black-blue-seas: this furious suggestion, as
seasoned softly, cringing our immortality: this silken robe, another’s home,
where admittance becomes trespass: this light affair, where hearts burnish
golden, where souls vanish.
I’m late for practice, this inner Pianist,
this Trombonist: that lagoon-closet, our filthy toes, our palms grounded with
algae: this flippant eyesight, this flippant disposition, this feeling that
wrong must be appealing: if but to clear-coats, or jade-blue binoculars, while
pain flames as yellow-fires: herewith, are scars, our inner sky-rockets, this
bag of poodles’ poop; as mother dances, too many years to sodden, while moist
to bones cemented in cemeteries: as laughs a fool, grimacing over normality,
where normal is often incorrect. I cry
at terrors, to adorn outcomes, while steep a secret legacy: our British
Dynasties; our Jamaican Villages; this instance by grace adventured within
sorceries—wherewith, our mansions, this London Empire, our travels while
nervous through Kenya.
(I’ll soon rapture, unto something simple:
I confess this god in Us).
