Substance by Graves

…you’re totem-eyed love, this casual fever, erratic in texture—as sporadic cats, or capricious pups, our souls to butterflies.  I shell about warmth, our toes curling, this multidimensional fraction—if but with kindness, this first attraction, while weaving for gleaning admirations: our curries as pains, this misery as flights, our truths confessing this whistling article…as brochures bleed, our heavy elations, bred for battles raking consciousness: those arms reaching, this staunch distance, those feelings comporting as behaviors—to meld his eyes, while reeling disdain, as terrors are concerned with angers: that sharp dress, those tales of passions, this addictive vice gripping his memories—those cautious lovers, those manicured precisions, this loss as reaching its awesomeness.  I recite witnesses, this inner yacht, those deserts to fluorescence: this pastime, this hankering for nicotine, this spacial wine: our courage to speak, as opposed to slipping through life, while receptive a ladybug trying desperately: those plucked wings, as signs of maniacs, while courting a kitten fluffing her ears: that strong dementia, this inner overseer, our faces alarming our minds: this sudden flickering, that telic ache, this relic volt—to come to mansions, sprayed with repellant, while tugged a second into matrimonies: this testy width, that jasper experience, those welts to bones as passion ensues…or checkmated shivers, this cultic scratch, about a thousand years to retributions: this Buddhist vibe, this Hindu origin, this Mălitia Krishna Appetite…our Christ to trapezes, our Yahweh to reinventions, this Sufi afloat a thousand Dervishes: as spinning lightning, or up-chucking thunder, to whirl in circles shooting electricity: this Moving Ghost, this mini-phantom, our friends to secrets our hearts upon Neptune: as fleeing to Sardis, this space of engines, while telegraphing Philadelphia—those inner vines, this alienated Patmos, our smidgens as just enough to insight curiosities.  I recite witnesses, as mystic transmissions, floored to currencies staggering to Jesus…this rapture screaming, as filled with apologies, while kleptic a feeling that wars become natural: this Laodicea, this infiltration, those Mosaic Magicians—as itching presently, this notion this article, where nerves boomerang with essence our souls: our luminous thoughts, this beautiful mind, our peace at seconds meditated upon-High—this apparition, this velvety skin, those powerful women…that Crucifixion, those relentless Martyrs, our women to series of warfare(s).  I rumble an interject, at thoughts to disclose it, as it arrived out-loudly: this serendipity, as feelings emerged, this rush of panicky sensations: our moving spirits, this intelligent design, our cosmos whet with violence: this scary existence, this six foot man, while prepared if it wills to perish—as dogs lap, fawning with intentions, at doors awaiting their masters: this tricky languish, our mental linguistics, this feline sitting at literatures.  I’m present to sirens, meditated at ghosts, while ruminating this hectic atmosphere—to ponder existence, that final second, where Constantine repented: this relished loophole, this pit to sadness, our days feeling heavy at dung: those rolling feelings, this strategy too tipsy, our aches depended upon perceptions: albeit, with truths, this apologetic recital, where Vicious retreats by passes: as, It wasn’t me, but more this affliction, while souls scurry into far regions: that cornered child, wincing for closure, a bit too scarred to claim normality: that kleptic psych, with all his arch, attempting to unravel a millennia of abuses: this cultic gravity, as tugging at pictures, filled with Medusa…those leggy veins, this concrete reflection, this spin as taught fleeing its reasoning: as casual love, vetoing credulity, while attempting to perfect an ascetic life: that wave of vibrations, as alerting his soul, while far too remiss to claim insanities: as contrite arcs, or rapid learners, feeling with anxieties—where Love is gentle, while courted by Divinity, tugged for christic. 

Existence: This Stirring of Planets

Sadness curries life, this telic portal, this resistant message—as pure dingoes, or savage wolves, by fetters addicted to metaphors: this torrent laughter, as misconceived, our facial encounters—to witness insanity, while feeling compassion, our souls medicated unto behaviors: this liquid pollen, this hectic ivory, our porcelain afflictions: if but as taught, this island of patience, our instincts as autonomies: this vague image, assorted by lavenders, our violet-blue skies—if but to sing, as sung our symphonies, our lungs heavy by nicotine(s): this picture made cadence, those rosary eyes, this enveloped seduction—as dying its incipience, while cleaving its omega, our grade-school influenzas—as purposed to love, this lover of souls, affected by sheer resentments: that casual grin, this tale as self, our mirrors distorted by self-portraits: that calm agony, those velvet bones, this thought to gripping its ropes—as pure vandals, our insatiable appetites, as filled with sorrow abating our instincts: those infant cries, this adult desire, our waves cutting into realities: that jasper heart, this steep mood-shift, that irrational volt: if but as lived, our pregnant credenzas, this flight to turquoise as livid its congestions: that curious feeling, this want for purpose, our eyes determining if others are equipped with happiness: that sudden hang-up, this fevered anxiety, our petals stirred into traffic: that cage rumbling, this soul to afflictions, this woman seated in silent miseries—while living monopolies, as connected with underworlds, where it felt ecstatic to become psychotic: those roses bleeding, that tulip grieving, this phone-voice as pure enchantments—if torn to graves, than life to flights, where passions become nuisances—or nuance caves, those walls to scribbling(s), those seraphim(s) to music.

Shell-shocked

...you chance rivers, so blinded by needs, as accustomed to surpass selfishness…this glamorous sky-fire, this torrent in eyes, this Bhakti extravaganza….  [I purpose a scream, listening for swans, afire with strangers—as not to provoke, but truth to essence, We know merely vibrations…as this is sinning, or winning fragrances, this patch of cranberries: those webs abundant, this nip by spiders, this metaphysical Biorè—where souls clash, as pulling forward, while others stand at distances: this man to lies, as speaking prisons, accustomed to sullenness: that winning estate, this cryptic atmosphere, to become so steep allergic to ghosts: those faint prickles, this alarming consciousness, our beds sudden to shift: those warm waters, this bathing in Jell-O, this quickness to lights as falling upwards…as casual fools, interpreting invisibility, while whales hanker silence]. 

…you chase feelings, or brood insanities, or aflame this curse reeling in felicities: that paper crinkling, that soundful pen, those letters forming identities: as slaves by freedoms, or freedoms by slaves, to invest so much in simple gestures: this human instinct, while secure a feeling, where inconsistencies speak to inner traumas: this small helium, this bloated essence, our nights to private thoughts—where Love shows affection, such familiar innocence, or calculated tyrannies.  I divorce that thought, as aiming for clarities, this pagan to souls as afforded our curses—that wellic agony, this hungry state, our existence to birds shifting our reticence.  (…as time shall perish, our aging(s) to brains, this consistence pursuing self-agencies: or wanting more, as dying more, where parents point to legacies: our small vessels, this moving wit, our status as steep realities: if but to harness, this phoenix-sky, our clouds inverted as humans: this tale by souls, at love with arts, to casual life removing malaise:—or seated at contradictions, fleeing for raptures, so embedded our brains begin to alight upon sky-gravel).              

Hither by Wolves

I peak at silence, trespassing configurations, asking softly concerning love: this trilogy, those séance eyes, this taekwondo—as instruments reciting, or orchestras criticized, at torments avoiding soul-contacts: our lenses bleeding, our hands to decades, our loins fleshed with mercies.  I peek at auras, this jasmine-blue, our arenas fraught with lions: this warrior dying, as availed in last words, our Samson(s) pushing through hyenas—this sweaty temple, our ecstatic spines, this firry transmitter (that peevish psychologist, this threat to silence, our women becoming our reflections—to carry boxes, our trucks to gages, this adolescent first to hands throwing grenades: our Polycarp(s), our martial intelligence, this agency in Smyrna—as steep Ephesians, blind to cadence, filling with force this syrup by psychs: those naked rosaries, this cross flipping, such to darkness that incessant laughter: our maniacal jaguars, those gateway eyes, this hatch as cedar-wood-annihilations—while crafted souls, alienated from our tasks, falling into vicious beauties).  I limbo softly, meditated in essence, our brains drawing blanks: as concerned a soul, and, moreover, a lover, this position becoming frustration: our mechanisms weaning, this advice to passions, while lingering into fantastical regions: those pegs as darts, this feeling as smarts, while insecure secern’d by geniuses: that rabid sensei, those Asian eyes, those brimstone destructions—as fueled for fires, or flamed for fantasies, this fleece bleeding its furies.  I leak through violence, this nether-mother, at private sessions with profanities—this tug for ages, fleeing for flying, this fleet of firebirds: our suffering pits, this mental woman, our days to feeling this missing art…as arcs grieve, while sending messages, this person far too advanced to ignore…our pragmatic designs, or metaphysic nonsense, as, nonetheless, this maintenance by balance—as existentialists, reading Rorty, found for charged this gift of insouciance—if but to scream, our fatal paradox, at mornings dragged to showers: that swanic prayer, that mother’s fuel, our grandparents seated in meditations…[it trips a soul, to witness chatter, alone a pagan’s rooms]—this lighthouse abyss, this purgatorial enchantment, this flame as reaching into Dante: if but a myth, as sought a soul, peering for crawling into sunlight: that listening countenance, this wine as gentle, those bones to marrow as feeling insanities.  (I cry aloud, fumbling, El Shaddai, reaching into grim reapers—this memory data, as opposed to free clearance, as arriving while triggered as unbeknownst: those postern fields, this teak engraving, this sensational ear-verse—as cannons explosive, or canons determining, this vex in souls needing this luxury: this inner typo, this languid perdition, our suspicions while life is flowing: this great design, our tortured sanctuaries, this sacred seclusion—as never alone, our ceilings to phantoms, those creaks seeping into consciousness: this mirror laughing, this woman cringing, our rules becoming underworlds).  I felt nirvana, this craft as firmaments, this wheel spinning into existence: our nails dancing, our hammocks at stillness, this arch-ache keystone—wherewith, those rude gestures, as determined to sing, while others remained at peace: [this helmet secret, as needing to condemn, while beauty tugs, notwithstanding—those ocean roses, this shark to brains, our inversions as swallowed up-chucked to sands: indeed, with courage, this daughter as immortal, our fathers as scribbling details: our closet notebooks, that set of car-keys, this ability to unthaw steaks—as pure a suggestion, where weeds are treacherous, this force in souls loving for passions].                                               

Woodworking(s)

We oak through vines, our maple dreams, finishing mahogany trestles…this element in souls, grinding marbles, pitched afar into darkness…at cherry Maybelline, or raspberry wishes, thrust for shocked stitching grasshoppers: our walnut castles, this pecan sand-beach, our watermelon shorelines: where mother nestles, threaded into chaos, moaning this intractable disposition—as incorrigible destinies, weaning into rosewood, afforded one legacy called, Death: our haywire programs, this ghetto infusion, our screams painted in Southeast Asia…moreover, an echo, this teak majesty, bone to flesh her ribcage: those pine-leaf eyes, this cry into meadows, those deers proffering handkerchiefs…as thought by brains, this religious ash, mingling with beautiful spirits: our languid goodbyes, this treacherous forgetfulness, this hickory pyre. 

I settle upon beech, while chiseling birch, at tender memories: that fatal light, those rosary penchants, that tale as told for joys: our cedar insights, this talcum satori, our seconds to deep concentration: by yogic daughters, or Buddhist swans, according to this christic agenda…as casual dramatics, or redwood crosses, forced to redeem hemlock…whereas, with graces, this face of dungeons, crawling for content with mayhem: our gorgeous sensei(s), our radical professors, this theologian too un-grounded to sing: if but our lives, cultured for captured, spinning webs afraid to fail: this fir-stone, this pregnant séance, our burning-man collapsing to shores: as dead sisters, or antiquitous cousins, fleeing for flying arriving at Crenshaw: that luxury fortress, those trimmed shrubberies, this night-house bleeding its fixtures…hitherto, this silent ache, cut for drained, filled with helium: our spruce rituals, this feeling person, our catholic allies…as, furthermore, or therefore, this lonely auditorium.

Spoken From Dreams

We sense taekwondo, this inner karate, adjusting to this African Heritage: our screams muffled, our arts refuted, this picture programmed by another’s inhibitions: as flying in rapture, our arrows to synaptic gaps, this ideal feeling waning with likeness: to meet with violence, this rifting song, while love broods as becoming indestructible: this plate of peaches, those ferns to gardens, this tumbleweed tumbling through mirrors: if but Garnier, or L’Oreal, our canvas painted by Getty—as panting leopards, or desperate lions, feuding for rites akin to neutralities—that mental jaguar, those sable-blond eyes, this taupe-green grass…as palms fluff, while seated in thoughts, listening to whispering gusts: our ribbon-hearts, this floret swan, this vessel too wise for mediocrity: to live as synchronized, this synthetic existence, where arts prove this human necessity: that is, to create, as for to live, while drenched in epistemologies—this small person, as large in spirit, sectioned for adrift petting this lizard: our Geico instincts, as insured by chance, at membrance those times to simplicity—as major decisions, while pleasing life, where perfect appears so far aflame—that captive love, as emailed silence, our blank screens pitching quarters.

Women wear Pumps, while men wear Versace, as both wear Converse: our creative glory, reading into syllables, depicting imperfect captures…as perfect beings, scudding this blemished dominion, flitting for gliding those skiing philosophies…while dreamt a dream, this withered castle, but far beyond cursed to exist…as wilted petals, in spite of abrasion, afloat a flight staring at Divinity: our brows manicured, or toes scraped, our hearts to patience…as some intrude, fiddling by design, at angers that sudden eruption…to ballet with chimpanzees, as alive with sugarcane, feeding a group of flamingoes: this tall tale, to water those eyes, where it felt good to hold Us….                                                                                                                                              

Features Are Cultic

I’m Experience, this ousia, our inner continuum: this man at parts, this shattered mirror, those shards melding into chaos: this psych at cadence, this psychology grieving, our welts melting into overseers: as casual harmony, triumphant with tears, such to glory that hour to deaths: our liquid beings, this third bottle, our cavy sherm leafs: as dreamt a soul, comporting by mafia tenets, allergic to cuffs and bars: this deep execution, this death row sentence, those years awaiting annihilation: this winter’s agony, those summer cries, our autumns fraught with modicums: to seize cloves, undergoing cleansings, that room that smoke that odor.  We carry grievances, at existential pendulums, thrashing for destroying images: our faces distorted, this walk so gentle, to find peace ruined by instincts: this lavish horizon, those opalescent chimes, this crackle up-graving its essence—as pure waters, floored to maintenance, at magic an arm into fiction: our caricatures, this funny grin, as analyzed a tear too wise: as, nonetheless, craving such stature, at lengths to vet naiveties: that nun laughing, as flogging a fire, while flames chatter liturgies: our craved insanity, to awaken features, a person dedicated to dangerous paths: those small rooms, that large oasis, our exegetical convictions—while torn asunder, pulled for pushed, where exploration becomes ingestion.  I’m pure Existence, tugged by ropes, seated at radical sorrows: those trying feelings, at reach by seconds, to find this cheetah ramped our brains: such soft music, this jazzy air, fiddling for fumbling into authenticities: that gray river, those torrent-eyed catfish, this frog upon a leaf as it floats: our palms bleeding, our intestines murmuring, our noses oily: if but to vibrations, this thought by truths, to sense with perfection a woman’s ailments: such as dry skin, appeased by lotion, we proffer a kind word…or amazing a thought, as left without clues, peering at obvious suggestions: that cold dynamic, as safety becomes  challenged, where women distress natural proclivities: such glue unhinging, such autonomies threshed, to witness a trench-coat becoming loquacious: that fine art, this hectic agenda, this kleptic approach—where it felt nice but sin, or clever but ignorant, as provoked while features spoke lights: this measure to firebirds, this feral station, while recruited by geniuses oriented as monsters.  I’m torn Experience, this link to childhood, as different an indifferent soul: that adolescent, that young adult, this feather at wings attempting manhood: those casual nights, that Crenshaw bride, this Century City Asian: at love for seconds, to condemn conscience, where it felt good to sin: that roaring confession, at hells with mirrors, pulled for yanked falling upwards: our angry reflections, that Napoleon thirst, this Plato horizon—as speaking to bases, this pit of meerkats, about our skies peering for hawks.  It was psalmic rites, or Malachi’s heart, featured by intensities: to lose his seed, for sins unwashed, while credit has been given to mortals: to know his mind, if but that reach, where ten to fifteen minutes become allegations: that downward scope, this tinkering with brains, this steep vulnerability: those skills to beasts, our faces in hosieries, as but metaphor by disguises—as never a word, while ever a gesture, to scream an abstract.  I’m pure Existence, skipping through mazes, resistant to likeness…as whispers a thought, this dangerous analysis, where thinking-features prove catastrophic: or more to reason, this amazing monopoly, where elitists are registered as cultists: that petal moistened, those rivers dry, such by lightening those rainstorms…to have but clout, stressed about silence, reviewing a profile: this casual air, as met a human, while adhering to notions written: or pagan pride, distorted by needs, where vessels prove disenchanting: to destroy credulity, while eager to decode, fiddling for fumbling partial to notions: that luminous fever, that contrite meditation, this inner Twilight Zone.                

Protein & Fiber

…you’re rare by creatures, a thought to atmospheres, a conglomerate missile: this pain seeping, at crevices remote, our sediments speaking Spanish: to limelight passions, our mental footlights, this scrape about a baby’s toe: those florid addictions, this crispy thought, those legacies seeing in taboos: our carved landscapes, this savannah’s legacy, our valleys by velvet plums…at course to retreat, while passion’d at miseries, of course, reaching for hopes: those dreams this arc, that pillar of fireballs, this man seated in firebrand…as cut for losing, those interests by months, where two become overly familiar: incipient hatred, or casual admiration, while Sammy poses as possible fulfillments: this wistic feeling, this weltic arch, this wellic art—to season catastrophes, at tears by perfect sex, where gestures trigger mother’s oceans: this place within, this mystic remembrance, our synaptic sky-fixtures: as washed woodlands, this inner frontier, our music screams….  I was sickly, about a curse, reading through, Brimhall…this angel’s clarinet, reaching by deaths, aborted to life…this bare existence, this naked travesty, this tragic luxury—as psychs dreaming, refuted by visions, to copy with passions those reticent fears…or more this diamond, so small so petite, carrying as alone this infant penchant…that man to cities, as cried his life, to appear to womb fraught by birth-controls.  I spasm gently, as affected by change, where Love was cautious that explosive demand: those abstract breaths, this gardener’s scars, our peaches as ripe for plucking.  […you scream with silence, this baffling conundrum, a man at riddles by pitfalls…this chatty flower, this pensive pencil, those pantomime expressions—while rendered for kef, this region in souls, about a dungeon reaching for swans…this falling majesty, this rising Hades, our conquering for tragedies as conquests….].   It was lit for love, this force so deadly, picturing this life of suitors…that brilliant disaster, as claiming victim, but content this well of dim darkness…to cry was futile, to release was crucial, as finding this wrestling with humanness: that tender reed, those figs mocking, this sudden eclipse…as repeating cycles, while father condones, our pains sensing this flippant mattress…as casual scars, abated with time, where ruins become normality.  We fix to redeem, while claiming this fair existence, where secrets cut this feeble structure…those constant debates, this incessant problem, this fist to wails exclaiming innocence: this inner you-ness, that portal’s whatness, that outer thatness—where Love is gorgeous, this need to prevail, while daggers thrust as poisoned spears: our guts to feelings, as luxurious mediocrities, while sensationalized by Hollywood…as watching myriads, this feeling as lucre, our characters fraught by lies…this season to sexes, that season to treacheries, our notions knitted by self-interests: where lover(s) quarrel, as rapt’d to webs, while attempting to perfect this sightless model: our dreams to panic; our hearts to frenzies; this place in mother’s skull: our daughters laughing, as adorned with gems, to sense with life this penchant sanity: our cavy feelings, those rites to selves, where it felt sensational as center attraction: that dying limelight, this newborn damsel, our women becoming gentlemen.  (…a few, I love yous, to set our pace, while a dream stitches realities…this carnivorous agony, those charming lies, this archeological excavation: those pains to feelings, this winter to screams, as autumn settles in textures…our mathematicians, our buoyant feathers, this steep galaxy by canyons…those trenchant pits, as alone with love, our eyes forbidden our rescues: if but to science, this paradigm by excellence, if not for this pyramid of emotions…that violin reaching, those harps to dementias, this psalm as appearing in colors: our logic approach: our sentences to numbers: our genius resistance…as casual fliers, this message embedded, our last love letter….).               

                                                                                                                                      

Night Wine

We admire nuance, as living for deaths, this psych a breath his tears: our subtle disgusts, offsite’d by wisdom, to see with life those ghosts: those myriad feathers, our daughters to caves, this alarm ringing by pheasants: our rabid charm, this disoriented vibe, such to cadence staring at psychoses: that mother living, as dying an ache, to come to catharses: those pebbles warming, this heater freezing, our fans spinning chaos: as friends yield, or rave with indifference, to ask with shame this inner contention.  (We see cycles, pulling psychotics, while ostracized by cadence: this rifted heart, this arc to winds, those woodland miracles: our facial chills, this riveting virus, our possessed as acting overseers: [where truth is lies, as lies are graves, this sentence to Alcatraz: our Feds cringing, those compounds dancing, those cultic scissors]: as cutting tones, while laughing insanely, to come to tiles kissing invisible crayons).  I met a youngling, fiddling with a monster, while impressed upon self to become a stranger: this yellow ribbon, that winter’s wine, this casual global warming: to curse in private, while nearly a scar, a bit too beautiful claiming monogamy: as sure to giggle, while confronting breaths, this death to pass adventures.  It was hell’s justice, this radical convergence, seated in cells reading Dead Sea Scrolls: or locked in rooms, revved off of ecstasy, to lose conviction in close to a second: those rivers running, that vandal thrashing, this gut to silence condemned as Lucifer: those tall tales, this pushing upon backs, as seraphim(s) floated afar Isaiah: our lamentations, our Jeremiah(s), this section in brains recruited by manic measurements: that woman chancing, as dances aloofly, while change becomes this therapeutic: our lights to psychs, this reeling psychologist, those interests in signals bleeding symbology—as rooted vexes, or irritabilities, to sit at peace carving incisions: those trees severed, those dreams excavated, this angry approach to sex—as dead men, living through cavities, at rest a decade into transference.  I met a gem, this perpendicular disdain, at perils to resist an ancient sister: those cabinets fleeing, as exposed to winds, this panel dripping termites: if but to perish, as lives attraction, while angered a tad to scars: that indifferent feeling, while to miscalculations, thereto, a bit enrooted to flames: that staggering night-light, this temperate minion, our angular sacrifices—as blatant arousals, or torn frustration, our days at edges wishing to saw about anything: while chipping at wood, or gnawing ginger, or moving just fast enough for spirit to follow: that deep secret, a man to his journey, while Feds laugh a scar.       

Doritos & Tuna

I adore, Love, seething burgundy smiles, laughing for reamed by dungeons: this devil’s grin, our sinister secrets, at terrors this rising spider: our blueberry cream, as toe-curly arts, ashamed for struggles: this man in jars, this top un-whirling, our curtains slammed at gravity.  I thought a name, as steep resistance, our trestles fraught with portraits: as dying calamity, or digging his grave, but a slave attentive to rules: those gray sharks, this inner liquor, our horses kicking goads…as filmed his brains, allergic to intimacies, at covets this dream that runs.  I adore, Love, seated for sinning, awake while sleeping accordions: our babies’ whispers, as centered by selection, such fitness disguised as séances: that relic scar, those mental flashes, this rising by anger a second by satori: this legal matter, as adjusted by Satans, while agonizing over respect: if but to cleave, as thought his pains, where psychs moaned in prayer: or lethal this passage, while pruning insanity, to laugh while dying from loneness: as sullen passengers, adorned by crescendos, fevered for designs partial to singleness: that jasper voice, those jazzy garments, our blues as sung but refuted—while death was likeness, where good was forbidden, this wealth of hip-passions.  I adore, Love, this winter’s exit, our summit as blended with Israel—those challenging gestures, those summery eyes, this grated and uprising conviction—to sense with time, this blur to sorrows, while tucked at dangers this hospital of thieves: our cheers to jeers, this legacy of followers, while thinking becomes this foreign savage: or more our thoughts, pushed for suffocating, where dungeons become our keys: otherwise, lonely, sensing with lights, at perfect perfection leaping from cliffs: our cherished harps, this fiddling flute, our Carrie Bradshaw’s.  I passion with life, this essence flirting with sparks, amazed for shocked by ceilings: this amazing, Paltrow, that Kardashian Empire, our deserted, Cyrus: if torn to miseries, or un-grape’d for closure, our madness to lakes thick in manure—that tale as suppressed, those thoughts repressed, this subtle jingle a jungle by reversals—or more to fire, bathing in Charcoal, while sipping lighter fluid: that jasmine swan, those steep intestines, our roots battling for breaths…as tyranny soars, this laughter in Scrooge, this Duck, albeit, a fool—where mothers decide, if but to rooster, as sung to life a daughter’s joy…that creak bleeding, those hearts to vacuums, this feeling as driving his life.  I adore, Love, pondering a pot-pie, tossing a pack of cloves: those seconds to breaths, this island of balloons, this casual approach to lionesses—where father has pleaded, while mother has rescued, where exchange becomes this mental condition: our existential graphs, our epistemic dementias, this metaphysical abrasion—while pragmatic a problem, or sketchy that approach, where indecision proves disastrous…as mathematicians, or paleontologists, brushing with earnest those buried treasures…as artifact queens, dusting our souls, pulling from vinegar this lute of gems: that casual whiplash, those racing brains, our Hollywood becoming dry: if but admission, as cursed with existence, to find with Pharaohs this blessing in Thoughts.  I challenged, Soul, this background beauty, reflecting pictures to this image…our sails casted, this sea to turbulence, this woman watching as breathing: or leery a feeling, while pursuing research, where humans suddenly appear: that beast disguised, this mirror our guts, this vomit our blood…that honey-bold armor, those taupe-red eye-balls, that eerie antiseptic…as but for dreams, to love as alone, to cut silence pricking with toothpicks: that angular seraphim, those angry cherubims, this autumn to redeeming song-cries.                        

Soggy Sands

We live life, as sojourners of truths, abandoned to critical exegeses: this floret upheaval, those tentacle feelings, our deserted rafts—where imprints ramble, while pantomimes fire, as clowns insist at symbols of existence: this reckless carnival, those conniving ferrets, this parakeet repeating our agonies.  (It was miseries, aborted to lakes, our precious souls determined by lights: this rising root, by mugging disasters, admired for purchased through lusts…as, notwithstanding, this immortal grape, those penchants becoming slavery: our inner Europe, our origin Africa, a car as sudden to alarms: this euphoric energy, as wellic an alley, disturbed for passions those fatidic skies—where wine is blood, our Eucharist planets, this wafer an image those eyes: to die while breathing, to breathe was dying, our essence forsook to heaven).  I’m artifacts found, or earrings lost, or that subtle buzzing stemming from televisions: or Suzan marching, this analyst scouring, our brains to cities inflicted with sorrows—as casual lamps, seated upon trestles, but silent witnesses: or courageous vines, as unvoiced a scar, while tortured an upsurge: thereto, this monster breeding, at blossom our leviathan, at home-base an engine revving its destiny: herewith, are drums, this tribal sensation, this radical butterfly.  [It’s been pensive, longing for closure, as found while reviewing illusions: this mirror, gentle, as rising with vengeance, where chairs topple to silence: those creaking aches, this dusty fan, our towels moist with tears: or reviving with laughter, our spouses to concerns, where bagels are adorned with tomatoes: this mental watermelon, this emotional cantaloupe, that one cherry so destined its mines: thither, that portion, and hither, that potion, within this enterprise of crumbling buildings…where days were good, or disguised as elation, to come to walls warring for destruction—or livid a curse, our grumbling stomachs, this city promoting this bias argument—where perfect are humans, despite, our flawed skills, while it feels excellent to achieve monarchy].  I disappear, returning with thoughts, sensing this fragile wheel—while spinning its current, our nights to graves, this oblivious ache by rising pheasants: those tales sold, our fathers to purchases, our bodies to melding with deceptions: (but never this thought, this rabid theologian, this abased thing treated as Paul): to courage with time, this parasitical algorithm, our minutes at peace a delusional calculation: where fire seizes, as loins erupt, our guts our business our closets: this telic retribution, our mules and acres, this feral insistence—therewith, that innocent claim, as perfect a lie, while at deep terrors this instance of secrets: our mothers suspicious, our interrogation lenient, our praises given while feeling malaise: indeed, to life, at full respect, while washed with this desert of disdain: those gorgeous eyes, that porcelain flesh, that hectic doorpost: if but to vanish, as living with intestines, this mirror chasing its reflection: our shoulders screaming, this countenance testy, this irritability tugging at tiles: to hate for lies, while living, therewith, afflicted for carrying this sensation: as more to deaths, where time was gentle, while existence becomes this pillar leaning upon soggy sands: [that mechanic distance, this aloof legacy, our scientific approach to life: as feeling agents, but, nonetheless, living as robots: to cut his thoughts, while digging his brains, where contenders praise this unsightly ruling: our judges to liquor; our mats to moisture; our doubts presiding over our realities: as felt to goodness, this ruthless refusal, while never a thought to receiving exact treatments: herewith, this gray anxiety, fledglings and intentionality, souls and great disruption—or more this mayfly, erupting into a dragon, tested for ruined a tulip soul. 

Wing Opera Swan

…you empire gently, this remote dizziness, our furnaces aflame an arcade…this immortal ephod, at dungeons pleading returns, this precious enchilada: our brains for guts, our guts for heartbeats, this excellent remission….  [I adore amore, this door to pelicans, this beach towel filled with locusts]: as casual sacrifices, endured through decades, this fleet of addicts conducting our worlds: as healed leprosy, or radical leapers, our grandmothers seated at stillness: as accustomed to barks, while laughing at self, this ten-year cord our inheritance.  I laugh at feelings, tugged for purchased, affected by trite(s) so trivial—as adolescents, pardoned for crimes, a thief to his flutes: at scratches bleeding, at memories seething, while mother imprints this nest of cries: our distant bodies, our local arcs, this beating affection.  We open coconuts, or slice pineapples, while unthawing emotions: this wretched passion, as sensed for dangers, while said judges pine for existence: that rabid kitten, that mystic puppy, those ferrets running with laughter: as broken eyes, or inverted brains, this slant as seeing differently.  (I felt a gem, while courage retreated, where fire seemed reserved: this fool to mountains, this cloud to assistance, our smoke at stars afraid to fly; indeed, to riddles, as one laid bare, infused by almonds this symbol-adjusted-love: our blank pages, as formed in treasuries, this balance created unfairness—those metric eyes, that rubric ache, our rulers papered with leniencies: this facial mask, obliged by Neutrogena, as mud speckled with blackheads—or spaghetti-sauce, this fever by tomatoes, as hankering for ground-beef—or lost connections, if but for smiles, this precious invention fraught by calculations).  I dine with love, this fantastic miracle, at trails pegging concrete—as abstract sadness, cultured for disease, a bit amused we see feelings: this electric swan, this fabulous melancholy, our oxymoron(s) dictating imputations—if but his mind, stationed with legends, as mere naked serotonin—abased for scattered, as choosing through loins, while advice stared at stubbornness: this mental disaster, this unworthy lot, our ambitions to sky-persons: where time is hectic, as at flux with seconds, about a minute to become a solid adversary: those tall cries, this inner sanctuary, this bishop pledged by ironies: if but his life, alone to deserts, if but his love!  [I read into passion, washed in Garnier, bathing this infant duck: such moisturizer, such soothing calmness, if but this existence by mirrored ceilings: that beige image, that torn confetti, this miracle a mile into revivals—as pure darkness, inverted by cages, to arrive one sentence by perfection: those fiery dreams, those waking ghosts, this resistance seething with democracy]. 

{I admire strengths, steady at silence, aborted for redeemed: this lavish life; those echoed meadows; this thirsty and rigid oasis…where father scrapes, as scrounging for clearance, while whips tear through flesh…this deep image, those tales untold, this perspective dictated by historians: our ancient aunts, our gracious cousins, this legacy concerned with first principles: if but he lied, or held his peace, if but he died…where secrets destroy, while some hold to graves, where inner guilt afflicts a person’s countenance: this miserable deception, if but through bodies, while, nonetheless, loyalty is deflated by treachery: so one to madness, for Love shall leave, while all to science this self-fulfilled prophecy…our bagels with cheese, our sausage with peppers, this cream abundant with calories—if but to drift, prior to censorship, while certain to love a household of strangers…that inner mic, this mica phantom, our caricatures fraught with insights: as living forever, this immortal essence, while seated afar to touch a swan…our mother’s sanity, our father’s aggressions, our overseers disrupted with sheer disgusts…but more to oceans, as more to love, our trips to seasons where thoughts are dolphins….}.    

Captures by Colors

Open gates, and flow eternally, while stationed that resentful high: this kitsch madness, this daughter seething, this addict repenting: this tug to brains, this internal gumbo, our rice with gravies—as lived a sinner, comporting for glory, while agony those eyes that cleave: if but this wife, as seen in psychiatry—to Sophia intestinal cries: our blanket handkerchiefs, this gown screaming, this elegant addictive monsoon: as craved an infant, this breastfeeding alley, to witness a mother catering to our child: this pathway, this inner vestibule, this mystic volcano.  It dies with treason; it withers with harmony; this queen by a thousand hats: if but to rise, paranoid and reaching miseries, as melancholic as an abandoned future: this daughter to anomalies; this mother to false imageries; this psychologist at struggles for pure perfections: this Lancôme Paris, our shared interests, to place infinity in sullen palms: where allure is valiant, as vicious caprice, this beast by burdens reading, Smith: our wellic adventures, to besprinkle sulfur, this fire at rages shooting with permanence: those ecstatic blessings, as darting into concave-hearts, to strike with vengeance that absolute demon: our lashes blasting, this cake for riches, our grandfathers alert but melancholic with joy: if life this me-too, by caves stressed with reality, and curved with illusions: that tortured  anguish, this corridor of surprises, to take for sin this watered-down belief: as manic rules, or hypomania, admired for features akin to lunatics: our purposed oak-trees, this cypress bud, while searching rings within…our last bonjour, our first respects, this melody as accursed seething a wife’s proclivities…to ballet opera, while steep this rune, where symphonies become dramatical instincts: our clown-like resistance, this Sephora Empire, our laughs as monitored pantomimes.  We could to gentle, our skin our thirst, while leering for dying within foreign Egyptians: this Jewish pyramid, those tales by geometry, this hay as sufficient for one brick.  (I sip lattes, as laughing in tears, this portrait this steep vexation: to possess courage, as carried in countenance, if but this resistant tsunami: our wants for existence, where one was aborted, to reason with death this rich resilience: our bipolar thoughts, our schizophrenic angers, this post-traumatic ally; indeed, to tortures, while strategies formulate, our brains sprinkled by Herbal Essence: if but to exist, as seizing mortality, while, otherwise, repenting eternity: this backwards glance, nervous for trembling, at wonders while committed to longevity: our cadence bleeding, this heart at mountains, this last page prior to resting: as electric killings, this space I must abort, where mirrors blend into ceilings: this self we crave, while afflicted by reality, where it felt good to manifest).  I saw for essence, this Pulp Fiction pheasant, as slammed a needle to arcs: to come to life, struck for ruined, a tear too sexy for candent pictures—as itching his chains, about fettered to mist, reaching for gripping too far to latch: that reckless bleeding, those sinews to whetstones, our blenders serving as existential metaphors—that Stella Peony, this valve to vines, this Coach Floral…where mystics balance, as yogis seek battles, this field absent of but our mirrors: as sung a phoenix, this inner firebird, while fiddling for separating firebrand: this poet enchanted, while leaning towards senses, as hated for resisting immortal arms.  (We sing with orchestras, laughing while daughters mingle, to sense with time that men are fathers—about a hot-minute, or long this onion with steaks, fiddling for mourning over a box of potatoes: those exquisite vibes, this hush with time, as seated at misery mourning false representation…to churn galaxies, wrestling with mascara, or plain a look seeking ecstasies: this volume soaring, that music as passions, this negligee as purposed for seduction: our coconut cookies, this buttery gloss, our edges crisp with love…our women reporting, this therapeutic, where insistence becomes a challenge.              

Skies Are Burgundy

I philander thoughts, this cleft afflatus, as driven a psyche screaming its essence: our radical cries, this vivid elation, our obscenities serving as entertainment: our fatal lies, this cavern of alibis, this pattern of bruises: if but to remember, that tender touch, so sweet to kissing a rendered hush: as mortal kinsmen, afflux such hatred, to find this music our machination.  [I mesh purity eyes, involved in treachery, to carry this portal named, Humanity]: our terrible feelings, at once, to cages, to flee for absorbed in miseries: this call screaming, this demon moaning, our daily resistance.  It shouldn’t to perish, this welt in souls, where enough becomes barely sufficient.  [We exist feelings, if but that essence, to adventure similar sensations]: this mental gate, those torn endorphins, this winter’s categories: as apertures bleed, while steep our crevice, searching for lying concerning our praised egress: this rich entry, fraught by muscles, as gripping for deaths this blossom in bloom.  I felt for perfect, exclaiming insanities, as one afloat that entryway: this gated community, this gateway to delusions, this hatch unlocked for sheer embarrassments: if but ingress, those horrible skies, as opening for conniving this reframe: those elated portals, this hypomania, our posterns screaming returns: as slammers rave, to cut with silence, while alert this reaching matrimony.   I’m depth to limbo, this torturous abyss, fleeing for arriving in mental Gehenna—this futile demand, if but to dream, while passive this inner tsunami: our summer Hades, this steep perdition, while at Love forbidden from actualities: this scream dining, this woman as noetic, those introjects as livid: our psychs to combat, our psychologies to pits, this suffering to a land called, Survival.  It flows with harmony, this cycle called, Forgiveness, to hush with underworlds: this man livid, as torn to arts, fraught for abated by Abaddon: this space those dreams, this bottom arising, our days to ludicrous affirmations: as everlasting, this fire by thieves, to resist but found contemplating, Artemis: as said souls, or silent suffrage, afar a chaotic sensation—where daughters laugh, as mothers cry, this paradox by simultaneous feelings.  [I gnaw brimstone, to elate in eyes, at memories a decade into our futures]: this mystic wailing, this whale screaming, by obstructions our brains.  I find with life, this infernal kiss, where it felt good to appear as fledglings: our mothers at wars, our fathers to streets, this feud demanding our resistance—whereas, this adult pattern, this maze by men, this mental lower-world: therewith, this wretched appraisal, this candent praise, this routine as daily our agendas: to nether this existence, as flushed with panic, to anticipate this mental image: this place of torments, our immortalities, this welkin nirvana: as mortal bars, or helmet scars, fleeing for losing paradise: to seek this come-after, this wellic Arcadia, this portal’d atmosphere—as ecstasy laughing, or fathers wailing, this passport beyond our azure: to die with Love, as to evade such love, while captured pursuing such as, Love.  We come to dance, oblivious our firmament, embraced by felicity’s sorrow: that enchanting meerkat, that salacious butterfly, this pollen rich in vinegar: if but to sing, as sung our lungs, while silent a desolate room: to cry fairyland, as reaching magic-springs, where adore felt unbearable: those Canaanite hips, those Hittite thighs, as eyes seep into ceilings: this hereafter, as once after-here, captured for wrestling Shangri-la.  I ache upstairs, this subtle insanity, our walls transporting violence: as curious souls, wavering through decisions, at tetherball through fantastic images: this place in hearts, as skies would tell, while immortalized in pictures: that deep blue, those turquoise trimmings, this trip by lights this next-world.  I confess to passions, living our wonderland, attached for resented pleading our gazes: this temple in Zion, those marble bricks, this essence screaming by vengeance: our kleptic watches, those nightly fires, this light-time resonance—while seeking home, or this great unknown, flourishing upon happy-hunting-grounds—this life-to-come, this inner Us, this space in blossoms.   

Mystic Laundry

We exonerate faces, while drenched at scars, forbidden our luxurious screams: this soil-rhinestone, this porridge honey, our vacant redemption: as minor-prophets, seething liquidations, coiled within extravagance; or subtle souls, rabid a dream, too uncouth to seize harmonies.  I felt love, as needing insistence, while toppling through sugarcane: this dearth of wheat, this plethora of plums, our satin blankets.  I felt passion, this awkward extreme, at ruthless heights about ruth: this pitted existence, at ruminations, afore a castle those showers: such persistence, at depth this breach, fueled through brains our thoughts: our delicate memories, those pirate monads, this lexicon as hostages; wherewith, this excruciation, those relic pendulums, this soul forced towards reality: that brimming body; those courageous legs; this house so eclipsed with sheer affection: if but he sung, as stressed his life, that last visit appeared his mother: those rigid protruding(s), this death at skies, that feeling of shorn securities—as bleached serenity, at casual effects, to pause with essence this life indebted: our brains washing, this surge of seas, our oceanic wing-screams: as frantic advice, unheard but imagined, to point to needs throttled through psychiatry: this length as wretched, this carrying of persons, alone a room with ten sensations: as reckless souls, or determined for perfections, to admire a dream three feet to dungeons: that width afar, those ivory dimensions, this person at tears pulled with silence.  I know that heart, but not its brains, at aloof mathematics: those catholic garments, this space in high-school, such as remnants afforded their graves: that shore of sea-turtles, that realm of flight-dolphins, this shower our drains with petals—to silence self, as dying self, accustomed this lake of exacerbations.  We’re rare our cares, but elaborate in kindness, while pulled afar this passionate control: our skillet desires, this spatula of woes, that diary those ten pages: as floods pour, where dams withheld, while curious this design; wherefore, this touch-resistance, this tugging through principles, our imaginative lives.  I cramp with feelings, this nauseous ache, that taste of vomit: as nerves fortify, while acids germinate, this frantic-itchy-skin: those tales as told, that hold as vivid, this inner denial as farce.

Morning Ritual

I felt self, this intimidation, observing inner wind-casts: this volt-communion, this settled soul, our abstracts becoming absolutes: as miracle souls, our grandmother’s stew, this urn of bone made dusky: those handicapped brains, our crutches consecrated, this man screaming obscenities—as wildness-monsters, this ten-headed dragon, this beach-line flavored with insanity: this speaking beast, those thousand entries, this one page: at interior designs, this settee watching, as armoires become courage: this fatal tale, our morning breath, our last seconds with strangers—while scratching paint, as reaching for doors, found by janitors.  I dine with faces, those immortal grins, this hat transferring through intimacies: those royal garments, that essence in class, this remote control dictating responses: at moment’s heavy, far often a storm, threshed by nonpartisans: as needing life, as vitiating promise, while listening for bipolar-positives: this man about clearances, this dungeon as home-base, this mechanical approach to strangers: insomuch, a crane, this inverted anchor, our religious bolts pegged within: if but this lesson, or this fraudulent response, while labeled as hostages: that maniacal mirror, that indifferent fire-alarm, this register calculating totals: our torn percentages, our malaise interests, this person reflecting his deadness—insofar, this living, sentenced to Alcatraz, seated at corridors: that long passage, that ceiling of grasshoppers, this blender filled with locusts: those minds running, as met again, this faceless voice becoming weather: our lots to bulls, our horns to mysticism, this slant in proclivities.                  

Mother’s Creation

We ate chicken: We ballet’d against petroglyphs: We cried as only addicts explore: this welter’s grape, our instrumentals, this yogic line: to find with torments, this space scissoring skin, our breath a mirror screaming, Indifference: this hurtful island, as feeling castrated, our daughters this flex beneath wings: if but to deaths, as cliffs breed harmonies, to see with flying this cast of deliverance: our cadent dreams, this mystic muffin, our calamities seeping into illusions.  I die at spring, this life exuberance, thereto, this fleeing, adorned as caves: our mythic magic, this inner allegory, our tenets as reasoning(s) for mis-negotiations: as men weaving, or women craving, those tears meant for private altars: our puss filled bumps, this oregano odor—with such as death pleading allegiance: this alliance in leprechauns; this dusky dawn; our thoughts as missiles disputing scriptures: our mental mothers, our exampled fathers, this cloister of emotions—to extract by portals, this flying by feelings, to scrape with cuts this addict’s screams: while inner awestruck, our mothers to sherm leafs, afore a brain introduced to ghosts: this door waning, this weight exhausted, this welt to sons four steps to desperation: our deep intimacies, this bewitched ceiling, our parallels attempting to raise, Cinderella.  I felt giddy, before words formulated; such by mercy to embrace a curse: this Heart-Mechtild, this vintage jacket, our inheritance a pair of porcelain diamonds.  We reckon much, as considering forgiveness, while secrets prove to destroy our reckless homes: this serpent repenting, while ingesting venom, to vomit unto a legendary Paradise: this film recording, this art aborting, our seas as science dispelling mysteries: if but to witness, this unspoken manifest, our fingers with dust our faces.     (I imagine justice, this fibered diet, while gutted by inner sharks: this element weaning, this woman to churns, our song as truly dysfunctional: that mental hijacker, that outer orator, this feeling if but a perfect second: to forfeit existence, as cleaving to horrors, while elated a claim feeling disserted: those silken butterflies, this daughter’s hummingbirds, that strong essence by plights a budding petal—as father grins, as mother is frantic, to curse with life our grandfather’s clock: our russet concrete, this blood wailing, Dreams, our garnet-crispy-wines: as made of silk, this oily-water, flitting for fleeing, flexed in heart-chakras.  I dine regrets, this cloudy-tension, where desertion proves as panic: to rebuild bodies, as extracted for pure, while vessels seek disparaging mirrors: this mental image, as disgusted with purities, while claiming for essence this inner, Mary: if but to exhaust, this fatal spin, where death seemed perfect our existence).     I heard photographs, those steep impressionists, this stage fraught with glass: those particles to flesh, that blood to its audience, this father feeling reprobate: this metaphysic, as chancellors dine, where credulous-sights felt unbearable: our achy groins, this un-fleshed repentance, this mystic turmoil—to breathe with ails, this songs of ascetics, reaching for pardoned depicting ethos: this keystone wilting, this inner reminiscence, our terrors as calmness: to picture existence, this telic force, where pragmatic decisions prove as caring: if but to perish, this slim resistance, while esoteric charms demand a hearing: that synaptic countenance, this revving excursion, this film displaying our partner’s screams: as contrite souls, embedded by intrusions, as luminous as our mourning sky-scrapes.     (We come to egress, while staggering our brains, fraught for disheartened by chaos: this fragile creature, while filled with emotions, at slights an instance unbeknownst: our enamored wishes, as pure to rejections, about as tremulous as newborn kittens: this space in atmospheres, to reach with passions, slamming into a vessel’s arc).       

Free Lances

…passionate blue eyes, pale contamination, this theory that all need existence: this garnet womb, this velvety texture, our cries as testaments.  It died volcanic, to perish as living, such mahogany hairlines: this fool drifting, our philosophies clashing, this inner essence by psychoses: our frantic behaviors, this emotional intelligence, our interracial journey-stars: if butt to breath, this jest in dreams, our psychiatrists distrusting senses: where mother screams, as habit-a-scar, our professors but lexicons: this freelance adventure, this ten second entourage, our daughters to tears mixed with survival…this encyclopedia, this tomb trespassing, our angst(s) becoming seraphim(s): as caravan soldiers, this night by Gravity, this fleet of warriors: our notorious screams, those frazzled sensations, this series of acrobatics flushed with agony: our devilish cries, this secret to landmines, our manikins speaking about salvation.  It was goodness, Love: this Gucci enterprise, our colors meshing through brooks: this agile sister, this courageous granny, this morning’s serenity prayer: as came for survivals, to master intestines, while shot to hells a simple countenance: as asked a demon, this wine to souls, where Love dies Bhakti: our cravings blending; our moon as resurrections; this whale a bit too silent; indeed, as senseless, or dearly antic-blind, feeling for life this satanic castration: our automatons, our inner anxieties, this authentic chase: where father grieves, as died a legend, at practice this delicate autonomy.  I puff cloves, dying this sin, reading through manuscripts: as something subtle, where more invests in trance-thoughts, this grave inversion: our carnal crimes, this thief redeemed, our parents laughing where pains are evident: our aunts smiling, our grandpa churning, this spirit-world invested in membranes: our fatty tissues, our violent issues, this friend as one to helium: if but our casts, this cinemas of passions, to parade as perfect captives.  I live turquoises, exploded for fawning, at tears an element in concertos: this wellic sage; those russet sheets; this tussle as demanding freedoms; where uncle flares, as bought for raptures, to spin as living this death: our elegant swans, this inner mannerism, our grannies to senses—as father mourns, or cousins laugh, where our houses are filled with love: this pendulum shifting, this maniac at words, while grandpa cups a palm; in truths, forced to climb, this pantry of horderves, while sketching puzzles: this aperture bleeding, this sequoia speaking, where oaken vows are haunted by rain-worms.     (…at bosoms, Love, this outsoaring future, our nights to admiring stars: our celebrity waning, this woman’s feelings, our dreams up for surveillance…where scars are hectic, as thieves convert, our solace as sanctified scissors): if but to panic, this miraculous sprinkle, those fire-volts shifting as yogic titanium: or more our thoughts, this cocoon of trepidation, to tell a scientist to decode Jesus: this man to wings, this field to screams, this Adullam Cave: as hallowed passages, this man to songs, our scars as insane asylums.   I felt distrust; I sought, Love; I left abandoned to vampires: this tiny vexation, as tiny a woman, while speaking this exotic tongue: our reservoirs as passions; our electrolytes as motion; this lacewing as inspiration: if but to salts, those conclave seas, at Poseidon this Pisces a dream: where Love watches, as Love evaluates, while Love carries Christ.     [We exist as souls, our palms itching, floundering thousands: this relic intake, this volume bass, this exquisite swan: as butterflies orchestra, this wand to winds, this texture as ruff around edges: our eloquent cries; our Teasdale accounts; this swan as musical].     It comes with time, this freedom by lyrics, this crush as dying its invention: this manic mind, this kleptic essence, our feelings for passion dissipating: our deep sorrows, this hope for longevity, those nights too tired to maze this agenda: our tracing shadows, our ariel fatigues, this plum so sweet a zeroed cave.  

Free Agencies

[…so fragile & delicate…so witty & elegant…so disrupted & frazzled….].

 

We fret existence, teaching examples, left to screams: this imperfection, whereat, our replicas, dancing to psychotic brains: our prodigies, our prodigals, this passion for mother: our caretaker, our primary infusion, this irreparable petal: as eyes glisten, this internal glitter, our tears gutting our stomachs: as lifelong therapies; or psychs for medicines; such through damages our ghetto miracles.  I lost laughter, while reeling injustice, to find this partial pulpit: our scandalous revelries; our phantom misprints; compounded by religious rudiments: as parted atheists, screaming religiosity, to simmer into spiritual: this scientific, this kaleidoscope god, this Bella Sera: our garbs afloat, this pineal gland of mystics, such by this cliff disputing its sanity: our fireball sketches, as heavy intestines, those shifts & churns through livers.  I read about love, drawn to ideals, idyllic our treasons to explore: that subtle grace, abandoned to feelings, where crows are gnawing blue blades: this grassy hillside, this country of dying men, this mountain but so enchanting: these tales by smoke, this smaze by glass, our inheritance monitored closely; whereto, this telic agency, our synoptic alibis, or reasons for sheer treachery—as needing acceptance, while foul against society, where pastors perish panic.  I discourse feelings, ablaze an element, while debating our teachings: this mental professor, as he churned truths, angered for this gravity tugging parakeets: this afoul image, where anger prevailed, while present to soul this steep regret: our warmest rivers, our coldest furnaces, our major insanities: this pash weaving, this love adrift, our rain as testament to new crops: if but to agony, devoid of growth, our psychs would invent justice: this soul collapsed, as rising a phoenix, fiddling through Exodus: or left to tenets, as fundamental concrete, this need to believe beyond our existence: those ragging eagles, this running rabbit, this big eyed chimpanzee—where mother sits, while sipping Malt Liquor, this dull white rocklet.  It was achy diamonds, this pillaging sky, this pang in prophets: our daughter’s music, our rebirth disdained, this passionate project—as rare to souls, or cured for explored, where it felt good to see growth: our colorless colors; our invisible visions; this passion for impermanent permanence: if but to koans, this face before existence, this unthinkable image: our lights low, our ferns singing, this rose upon ice.  I remember, Three Stooges; wherefore, this reckless charm; while oblivious to moral will: that lowercase, as implying vandalism, while tugged for essence this bleeding grayness: at supper absent, peering at hypocrisies, finding through mazes our courage to laugh: as diluted ethics, become immortal curses, we ask, [Where did he learn that from?]: this reverberation, this silent killer, our reasoning pilfering our calm estates: those seconds prior, that third swig, this twig floating through synaptic gaps: this disconnection, those endless inquiries, while refusing to acknowledge this lose of respect: as timeless psychology, or misunderstood, where existence must acquiesce: if but to breathe, an addict’s exegesis, this hermeneutical travesty: as eyes blend, as fathers wane, where essence has forfeited this adventure: those secret wills, this mental ransom, our sandpits becoming quicksand: wherefore, this treacherous intake, this ferocious inrush, our treasures casted to crocodiles—where Love gazes, this event in souls, partaking of our writhing bones.  We knit ideals, as winning this landscape, while fortifying our linchpins: our hinges oiled, our bolts secure, our screws adjusted for storms: this miracle child, so wild an influence, where our rare gifts are desecrated: this inner jealousy, this frightening youth, those mental apologetics—as captured in vices, as distinguished pillars, pointing for bawling seeing our selves.                                 

Brown Eyes: Hazel Screams: Meadow Dreams

…make evaluations, while reading habits, astute for crooked pleading dishonesties: this tour in men, this archaic breath, our Om(s) at widths: to explode gravity, our teary brains, our grannies kissing our pineal glands.     I wound existence, peering at swans, at cadence this distance—our insistent thunder spears, this rapid heart-elation, our contours glowing with ecstasies—our inner mail, this postal arc, our telegraphs to silent essence: if but to fly, at pure existence, a bit sullen our evenings deteriorate.     I saw legacies: I felt addicts: I sided as lefties afforded this mercy: our cryptic psychologists, our weary theologians, our immortal grandparents—where Precious slumbers, as captured by morals, to bleed this cultic existence: that inching phone, this lawyer’s vest, our judges nigh deaths: if but as sought, this ecliptic universe, while slew at songs this shiver.     I heard feelings, a-stream this river, while encapsulated with mystics: our carnal cries, this spiritual sigh, those swanic eyes—where granny feels filthy, at loses this jewel, where family becomes insensitive…our transmissions, this leaky valve, our driveways spotted by oils: this conglomerate connection, this fueled psych, our overseers deliberating.     It comes with genius, this revived addict, this lesson to souls where drugs are instruments: this motive to die, this feeling to charge, jutted for threshed at blank insanity: this non-motion, this inner ocean, our wings to souls a kilometer at Mars.     I’m hacking, Love: seated in permanence: this steep resistance to kef: our glass fans, our ceiling mirrors, this vase depicting Buddhism: if but a glimpse, seasoned with legends, this grandiose insanity: as fueled for mercies, or crying his legacies, to aunt a vibe feeling this family: our essence bleeding, our hands as nailed, our resurrection a tear to Satan: this lonely soul, as filled with powers, forced to secrets seeping into reservoirs.     I saw a flower: I held sap: I thought to owls this restricted light: our ferrets laughing: our meerkats reclaiming: it comes to skies this falling upwards: our grand appeal, this meter above, while serious minds find heaven this journey: as kleptic honesties, or hectic revelations, our epiphanies a bit torn to judgments: if but to exist, as typing with heaviness, to see or witness eyes shedding insanities: this lambent arc: those cadent sparks: this blessing as penetrating by essence a person’s insistence: this deep enchant, to walk as staggering, to feel with life this absent of intoxicants: our brave minds, this feeling to posses, as taking ownership: insofar, our errors, splayed as dying, our restrooms private sanctuaries: to peer at life, while wiping a tear, where swans exist as royalties.     Something died, as tulips blossomed, and something lived as roses withered: this kindness to monks, this fluorescence to nuns, this shaman damn near ecstatic: where mothers flee, as fathers chase, our children pollen’s oblivion{….}    I heard to pause, as steep affliction, while reared in thoughts a mother’s image: our Gucci pretence; our Versace countenance; this Golf Shirt speaking to delusions: our feral cries, this florid future, our valves adorned by refurbishments.     I ache to dance, at justice with monsters, as realized compassionate souls: this inner caution, while abandoned to strangers, reading into fatigues: our attic rapture, this ghost by humans, this veil fraught by veneers—if but to perish, we dine with angels, our inmost resilience: this swanic art, as born with feelings, while smiled a glance those familiar parents: our cries muffled, this begonia accepting cycles, our fuel through screams as more to legends…our ballets winded, this balloon sinning, our cards thrust upon gambles…such frantic abandon, such love to live, our ember but a spark fretted to exist: that marvelous passion, those glamorous eyes, this lint to waves as more a spirit.     I laugh in pains: I chance with spears: I tend to Humble by countenance: at vibrant soul-washes, or agog-rituals, forced for thriving as renewed laundry: this embolden opera; those mental chastisements; this cadenza as chanting while removed from persons.                              

Mandolins & Geese

…albeit, love, this relative invention, I’d died our roses: those velvety eyes, those torrent cries, this wiggle for positions: our cavelike essence, our sidings with Neanderthals, our scissors by Africa…if goddess portraits, leering through dementias, tugged for dragged eating impatience: this psych to methods, this shaman to sherm(s), this yogi afflux an inner chamber…to hate his wife, while encouraged internally, our wars dictating humanity: those bold screams, this dream-catching angst, our flames reported as delusions.     […we influx passions, as vomiting fluids, tore for stolen from Reason: this drooling sanity, this leaking richness, our cores to afflatus as bent towards hells: our professors adjusting, becoming orators, while sunshine fails that shaded oak: this poison so sweet, this field so desolate, our brains committing mimicries—as desolation, our steep mockeries, this engine undressing its parts: as blatant nonsense, until that second, our heart’s satori—as agony repenting, or feelings washed, where it felt good to wail profanities…as earth to soil, or soil to breath, our profane exemplary….].     It’s been hell, this purgatory, this calendar inverted: (as more our rudiments, this abstract reality, these mental imageries…to spaces as existent purely by thoughts)…where wretched resides, this casual savior, while Love aches a verb: to up-live deaths, as diamonds-flower, while puffed for existence: our cadence retorted, our essence flaming, this fan a symbol spinning this life: as saintly fools, or hurdling winds, this tip so enchanted we die.     Such silken spines, alive a curse, at voices dining with metaphors: as disheartened men, or but a bruise, while golden faces attend to panic: our lazy eyes, this dream in raptures, our convergence blinking its detriments: if but to cognac, if but forgetfulness, if but an insane asylum—this love for women, this adoration for partners, this ache bleeding our pharmacies: where Love was perfect, as needing this infection, while told by reality those tendencies to forgive: this wellic heart-stance, this brain-war-care, our agonies pleading remission: those remnants dying, this sand becoming holy, our quail as but redemption: this shadow knitting, this touchstone ragging, this keystone reality—where mother is gentle, while father runs madness, this slight leniency.     […i sip, Estancia; I maneuver pains; this life to feathers adrift a scar: our accordion membranes, our synaptic tidal-waves, this fever for acceptance as feeling abstract: our blatant abuses, this lie as fruitful, our moral compass exploding.     We take to miseries, as infusing existence, our minds fiddling keels: this steepness burning, those indifferent thoughts, this occasion for passions lingering towards deaths: to fumble at times, laughing at insanity, as pure a man struggling with Reality: this voiceless symbol, those scented panties, this filthy tub: as raindrop friends, or spiritual advisors, this second so steep we see skeletons.     i toil glimmer, as but a soul, fretted for filtered frittering this love affair: our nights that instance, our days that sentence, this beauty ark destroying our salvation: as typos skip, where thoughts are rapid, a woman ten tears into her garbs….].     Our chantress dreams, this mental mirror, this mental charm—as never to odors, or crusty feet, this thing women tend to—as beyond Xanadu, cleaving to Romanticism, to garnish a feeling leaking into profanities: our colors blending, this set of instructions, to course with life this Private Academy: as picklock’d souls, our kids seeking allies, our ballads reaching through story-grains.     (i love as dying, to feel as flying, this daughter his screams: as Fable thunders, while Love is sick, where days remote to vacant sea-boards: our whales laughing, our seahorses jotting, this seal adrift for this gripping panic: our inner fulcrums, this magician psychologist, this fruit as bitter with sweetness: to die resurrection, as feral with fiction, where it feels good to see Us).                               

Esoteric Land Ghosts

…its contagious newness, those garden footprints, our rebuked fig leafs: as casual giants, pining in private, cursing immortal thoughts: where gravity’s obsolete, this pressure in men, our small, delicate monsters: that relic scent, that telic rope, this gutted essence: while mother guitars, fumbling gently, our campfire filled with turbulence: this wicked elf, this rapacious leprechaun, our memories fluxed through storylines: that angular beaut, those rich orations, this camel seated a last breath: our entrapped ghosts, fleeing motion, as grounded in contradiction: this palmic cloud, this inner helicopter, those odd encounters—as women sew, this knitting patience, our crochets becoming omens.     […too many reasons, as laughs our fathers, while intestines scream with vengeance: our antsy nuances, this treason as receptive, our scalps inching—as mortal vines, this patch of grapes, whereto, this infant nibbling: that spark to silence, those intolerable shifts, this notion to intrude: such humble vestibules, such demonic undertakings, a man sprinting through indelicate wounds: our poison-allures, our panic as offsetting, this compliance as becoming detriments].     We come to wax, as Immortal Meditations, to witness atypical brainstorms: while stirring teas, this hint of sugar, our pies wafting, especially: those fire-cries, those watery gestures, this space denying concrete: our manic stares, this person as skin, our vampires misusing Intelligence: our Intuitions, our cosmic flights, this arena as lost to grayness: our radical heart-flutes, this enchanting essence, our lethargic days: while thunder soars, if but to blueprints, our fatty lobes raging; whereat, are imaginings, this affection for newlyweds, this horror to susceptibilities: as weaving giants, or lost agonies, while floored a project demanding justifications: if but moral-webs, or ethical-telescopes, this examination as outright destruction: as mental spectacles, or veins as tentacles, our muscles sudden by spasms: this engine’s oil, our slipping motor-mounts, our outer reverberations: such by brains, liquidated by hearts, such parts chasing immortal Arts: this man to oases, this woman to gardens, our evergreen backlash.     We live our lives, feeling sensations, at battles with inertia: where some take joy, others find demanding, while both are subject to sunshine: this rainy savannah, this loquacious esplanade, this eye-arc promenade: as mortals with spears, or inner planetariums, our seconds becoming blissful: our X-Men powers, our Cinderella revelation, our thoughts pushing flesh: our superwomen, seeking supermen, this tug where life resists its course: our goals as violins, our math as pianos, our cymbals as symbolic loudness: this chasing within, this lose of dreams, our silent, rudimentary aches: that subtle essence, those vehement storms, this place in dungeons as feeling familiar: that is, this surface substance, this sullen drum, this sway tugging for reaching deeper—as finite vessels, or immortal energies, at heart-to-brains this series of ghosts.     […it looms as rivets, this rippling cork, this spacial dust: our dusky feelings, this churning emotion, this steep wonder—wherewith, this shift through valleys, this mind-printed room, that reflective glass—as worlds turn, or rivers become bold, this general sensation: those elements as designs, this thumping as emphatic, that tadpole piercing our metaphors: as wiggling ensues, while reckless for vision, those months to reach a different location: those returning tentacles, that fire in legacies, this chipping at woodblocks]:     as some would live, this paragliding angst, this parasailing ecstasy, those canyons by ropes: if but to songs, at love with wilderness, afar but near an orangutan—those endearing eyes, this beauty waning, our poets becoming cynical—as proved his life, while tugged for practice, where realization depicts this lonely freedom: by vests afloat, those radical entrepreneurs, as investing in our lives: this sanity-ship, our peaches with crème, this fire daunting its flicker.                                                                                         

Research Features

I long as distorted, veering through dementias, and treading about delusions.  I cuss in private, vexed atop costumes, and fleecing another masquerade: this delirious passion, our seconds afloat, while curious those demonic eyes.  I sip psychotics, an erotic drool, preparing for telic days: this man to lone-ships, this ocean to Mercedes, our brains to this hex slipping by darkness: as casual light-hawks, or squirrels crawling moons, while Neptune has gone psychoses.  We live for goodness, inhaling a cigarette, famous for domestication: those jumpy-jacks, our noonday gin, this element as life as sought by pilgrims.  I met love; I died hell; I see us in a billion eyes: those flippant lips; our demographics; this losing by realities: as pressure blooming, where relics perish, our pirates headed to rehab.  Its hellish glory, a feature at a second, realizing loses: this destructive inquiry, this motive bleeding, our daughters hard to conclusions—where mother dies, as cursed with burning, our loins but a second at easiness.  I feel amiss, seated in mist, a million miles to madness: this mystic airwave, this mystic mother, our biblic addicts—where psychiatry films, while psychologists gather, as fluxed to exist death’s philosophies—our achy acorns, this tide to seas, our sands as more a magician’s sawdust—insomuch, a scar, as battered a damsel, to awake pleading for forgiveness: this steep sickness, this metaphor claiming existence, this silence becoming our lambs: if but aggressive, to die slowly, while humble as passive cringing, nonetheless: this triggered yawn, this revelation, this seeking for fumbling through scriptures: that lowercase, those aces to graves, this joker poking Pinocchio—that gremlin chancing, those roses dancing, our pushing by roots through soil—where passions are ghostly, while addicts are irresistible, to ride this wave as dying that curse: our vacant gardens, this Japanese aroma, this season to garlic [if but to exist]: as pagans traipsing, or deserts lonely, to purchase a pint while aborted as souls: this casual love, as potent his brains, to exit as entrances this carnival—where mothers laugh, as fathers cave, this slot in whirl-style heartaches.

I adore knowing, as rare a songstress, rumbling through noisy meadows: this soul gawking, where wounds are prevalent, our terror to nights alone a vacant scream: this rush of poison, gripping satin pillows, sweaty for exhausted: this ache breathing, this person smiling, this demon as eyes to mirrors: our balanced dance, this infamous design, those to arts as invoking a serious calamity: that terrible elation, this fall to dungeons, our passions as more a hoax.  I needed elixir, if but relaxed frost, as bitten for tussling with fire: this intimate creature, advanced at feelings, while fools run from emotions: our mental strengths, at wars with inner flux, while concluded a dying travesty: it but to fly, as caged at vex, where forbidden this island of dissipation: those crazed souls, while claiming possession, seated six galaxies afar contenders.                                                                 

Grappling Winds

Let it breathe, this person to persons, wishing for rights: this moon weaving, this traffic lethal, our lights our rear-views (this cadence, this strange occurrence, I’ve done no wrongs), this vicious lie, this tetras sex-par, our brave detriments.  Let it breathe, this sphinxly-elfin, this fire-mountain, this Elijah-Elisha: as facing conflicts, resorting to inner chambers, flicking for thumping this bump: our minds to blood-work; this mystery Irish; this cagey sunshine—as blasted with liquor, to offend grandpa, while lethal a dart our daughters: this grown comfort, this mechanic appeal, this love as falling into regrets: our maniacs, this compound, those Feds—as bleeding admiration, to cut with life, this agony as thought for freedom: if but beauty, this template grieving, this anxiety to innocent souls: as long coats, or temperature scarves, abased for fending [if but to fly].  I lied an angle: I forced to dying(s); I laughed two seconds by a woman’s waist: if but as sung, this gunning mentality, this impetuous building: our braining Greeks, this Africa with Love, this Ethiopian our screams: if but to Europe, as sparked a feeling, peering at unnatural sensations: our aggressive sex; our mortal marrow; this immortal legacy—where father laughs, a true to life, forced for captured outwitting spirits. 

Let it breathe, this plural contract, our bodies to remote violence (those palpitations, this one volt, this woman peeping for disgusted): as deep his guts, as laughed his mother, as screaming, [T]here’s no escape—we live as broken, this office unsafe, this car as fifth base: our wives sensing, this uncanny intuition, while rubbing for mourning: this guilty gut, this poodle panting, this deer to eyes as surprised to leap.  I used to love, as sickness prevailed, where others thought to genocide: our craved Empires, our Pharaoh’s resistance, this edgy Samuel (as naïve beliefs, or actual existence, our daughters becoming entities) this sun training, this mirror reclaiming, our deaths as portal magicians).     [I surrender, as treachery-reluctance, filming homogeny—as mere a soul, or this fleeting man, where it felt good to admire legacies: our agencies debating, this soul to new faces, this feature as unrepressed: this motion fire, this psychologist water, this angle to feel for goodness—that gray sky, this lover’s toil, our nights to Never again]!

Let it breathe, this deep suspicion, this admission to vulnerability (those psychotic features, this breath to distrust, this fountain removing its measure)—as succeeding life, our sweaty necks, this forgery as becoming existence—where bridges are similar, this routine, as never a thought to stitching innocence: this retrieving castle, this inner drawbridge, this immaculate unicorn. 

Rainbow Colour Pegs

I miss me, that volatile daredevil, as built for vandalism: this cave bleeding, this woman to instincts, as void of trepidation: our carnal cries, this lie as life, our fields as screaming professors.  I rain panic, this steep interest, while sipping, Revelation: those Gucci feelings, this Versace illness, our manuscripts dismissing humanity: if but to eyes, that correlation, but buried as breathing, [while seething existence]: this rich penalty, our cross-examinations, this pollen stuffy for exoneration: our blatant women, this forceful guild, while too many to discern.  […]     I love as sickly, this session in souls, to remove reality while gripping mental motions: that statuesque mayhem, this hemmed pavement, this debit rejecting its first purchase—as miracle deaths, this daughter’s essence, this granny born to acquiesce—while feeling wretched, concerned with addiction, too feeble for falling this broken flute: our Arlissa’s beauty, this terrific problem, our men seeking for permanent prodigies: if but for sung, as hung his guts, this sad, secure, surgery.  I loved as distorted: I claimed as terrific: It was hell a helmet touching this behavioral maniac: as taught indifference, listening to psychologists, laughing for poker’d as drilled this cadence: our lavish deaths, our broken wholeness, this mystic to mind while seasoned to explode: our catty emotions, this fever dejected, our nights to seeking Chow Mein—as laughing maniacs, or sherm-leaf explorers, peering at red underlines.     It was green light, sectored in dungeons, a month to mystery meats: this salmon fetish, this English muffin, our years to mad ass insanity: those burgundy glasses, that brown homogeny, this blue denim life-cuff—where psychs examine, as aloof to essence, while Love explores a territory of suitors: this fatal assessment, our agendas weaving, for stuck at impasses: our Cover Girl patience, this exotic wildflower, to enter by collapses: those bracket hats, that lyrical womb, those theological polemics—where brains shift, as enlove with testy, to move with interior kindness: our days to blasé, our waves to crazy, this immortal part-time hydroplane: our addict president, this lowercase, as demanding impeachment: if but to miracles, thwarted for frustrated, another pint at our tribunals.  (I sin a culture, laughing for frantic, abated by realities: this special design, as captured a glance, to withness our increasing weights: as men suffering, nagged for tortured, this moment of clearance so passionate: where Lucifer dies, this image as delusion, while admiring Maya; indeed to curses, as bullets ricochet, while our pale queens deliver ruined livers). I echo essence, this mirror so crooked, at terms to defend irregular resolutions: this hand cramping, this father livid, our days to comportments: if but to language, sensing intensities, this inflective disdain: our broken watches, our negligees, this man refusing heart-crept deception: while mother laughs, as escaping to return, where hazel lenses fleet through graphics: as souls captive, this seventy years, wishing for afloat this notion of flying: our lute besmearing, this dung as hectic, our marsh as extravagant sensitivities: as lost his mind, while sex was afoot, where it took a day to efface a young swan: our hearts to pillars, our dreams to Midas, this touch if but to redeem.  I respect wars, if tentative(s) are absent, while vying to perish for more than oil: our present president, but a man to gambling, a tear too offensive: as turns our guts, or churns our intestines, afflux this steady outlash—where liqueur becomes features, as daughters become resistant, while wives lose respect: this King Monday, our Kingdom-ship, our realities serving as behaviors: this febrile goddess, this manic man, our addictions as splintered embraced but racist.  I ache existence     I chime gravity     I insist upon a losing disposition:     this craving sanity, as pillowed unto savannahs, this internal alligator:     to cry love, while pouting love, as never an account of this existence called love:     our broken bulbs     this wellic psychiatry     this aching psychologist—as knowing Socrates, to side with Protagoras, while effective through pathos.

That’s Our Cymbal

It isn’t racism, as more recognized, this fret for centerpiece: our geniuses flying, our psychs to essays, our professors warring for tenure: our combing years, our daughters’ debut, our wives feeling depreciated: those wellic brains, this sonnet pain, our sestina joys: our a.m. wines, our coffee with bagels, those lenses our morning sessions: to laugh while dying, or die through laughter, seeking validation.  I find truths, our major addictions, this failure to accept resolutions: this cymbal bleeding, this marsh as breakfast, our fasting dynasties.  We ache as humans, this kleptic condition, while spewing anger to receive our intentions: this kindergarten lessen, this speech impediment, our left ears contriving slurs: to spar for survival, outwitted by special-ed, at travels this bedroom dungeon: our mothers as persons, those persons as instruments, those old feelings surging by steep reflection; but time dies, as emotion suppresses, this feeling in actual beings: our inaccurate sermons, while flushed with confidence, as befuddled contorting our gazes: this gravy deceit, our portraits speaking, this thousand paged dissertation.  I love as falling, a bit disappointed, as too, this picturesque mental origin—where father is good, while mother is wisdom, our lives devoid of drug abuse; but hell to fiction, as livid to survive, this man carrying his ghetto; nay, to hell with survival, as more to masteries, fleeing for failing into disquietness: to re-juice, an engine at resurrection, to plummet deep this reservoir—as captured galloping, this inner Alexander, this triumphant Aristotle—as eyes perish, this searching for children, to discover that Suzy has outgrown her inner crib.  *We chime as thieves, discouraged by redemption, while empowered through antics: this wordless world, this behavioral universe, while septic our guts unto vomit: hereby, cut with Life, our last ingestion, fumbling young minds: as superior illusions, or major delusions, while composed as twelve paged disciples—this apostle fever, this rabid rehearsal, our stages formed prior to conception: this man flying, this woman soaring, as both are without genuine friends.*  We urine acids, as seeping into flushing(s), laughing as alarming our spouses: to recover sanity, as maniacal nuns, floored for fevered at discovering, Gertrude: our English jagged, our grammar distorted, while perfection finds comfort in something broken: this fool to madness, this self seeking, our realization that, nothing matters: if but to adventure, as torn through galaxies, where breath proves this human touch.  I take position, as destroyed this perception, while needing balance: as tales to truths, while secluded within: It hast to be this reality: our children running, as scraped a toe, to kiss with life as feeling perfection—this reciprocal relation, this boxy office, our intentions convoluted by desires—as perfected titles, while residing in caves, to explore as pushed towards new fancies; indeed, another cigarette, another false belief, another woman too perfect for wifehood.  *I spas-out, reeling insanities, wishing we’d met ten years prior: that mahogany dress, as covered his eyes, those proper-sized earrings: that cave we live, this furious mirror, our clout in science as miscomprehended: this lack of jewelry, this simple dementia, as never a clue: those remote souls, as loving her kindness, while pines a demon afar: this rare forgiveness, this Lucifer bent, our dedication to illumination: this woman at deaths, if but to curse, a box as exploded into this rib-side wound: our telic delusions, this wellic illusion, this frantic confusion: insofar, a triumph, to know this person, to be granted this cadence: as loves a fool, while recruited this paradise, at moments, too involved to appreciate strategies.  I can’t to see us; I will to love us; as comes a test this father’s tribunal: to die as feelings, to wipe by fears, to ask forgiveness: those loose-fitting jeans, this period at cultures, this bloated exaggeration: while cursed for sinning, or sinning for cursed, this sin as birth: our courageous swans, our fearless mothers, for hell to death, That’s my child*!