Let us whisper,
our glamorous shame, this
discoursed trauma: those Jewish eyes,
those pagan beliefs, and this silken rose.
I tried escapes, this Japanese-Europe, this germane anguish—this Black
man; this mulatto skin; this mystic wish.
I love nightmares, this jade to Existence,
this female dragon: esp. Saint Laurent, this addict model, our screams
muffled in opiates. I laugh to panic,
that late visitor, our wails popping Moet: as tendentious egos, or vagrant
racists, at theologians pleading forgiveness: our poet, Dior, our Ferrari
races, this hazel-eyed melancholy: if
thought to caves, as absent our swan, this mother bleeding her son: as Gucci
eyes, or palace sorrows, our admiration, born tragic.
I see allusions, sprawled before
dynasties, our mental stanzas—as crooked grass, or pelvis blues, while death
appears as bleeding.
Greetings!
I’m wealth to composure, as barely a
thought, sentenced to life as a minor: those seven years, while appalled at
breath, but too ecstatic concerning ant-trails: this vocal swan, this livid
mother, that inner foible: to cut passed islands, this silent vandal, this
knitting by chaos: to love as ruined, pleading sanity, while awake enough to
witness disjunction: our musky hearts, our rusty souls, this polish as buffing
resistance: those lakes by Love, our
operant divisions, this begging for captured at failures: our deep parade, this
using as breath, our pianos vague and
boisterous.
I never met her, this floating dream, a
pack of dolphins screaming: where sages flee, as traveling New Hampshire,
attending Colombian nightingales: this sculptress watching, this monitor
painting, our years to hellic rampages. I love as lost, this swanic friend,
this brook feeling conflicted: as ocean alibis, or insidious demon cries, that
one grain that leaped: where vistas invert, as spells linger, this mystic a
thought by grays. I adore, Love, this picture recanting, this
essence too at ease with dying: our palladium advice; our dying wishes; our
bias contorted in blush pains: if more wine, than truer deaths, this wild wind:
our inmost giants, this centaur moving, this alias as more confusion: our
prints to computers, our screams to dungeons, our wishes as subterranean: this
force, as intricate tentacles, or that pleat to christic likeness: this dying
castle, this living fire, our rapture as kinetic spirits.
I tear violence, as an un-violent agony, sprinting for home-base: this
electric whistle, this current to stars, our loquacious night-tents: where
siblings laugh, this vest by souls, attempting this in-depth courtship: where
mothers groan, such adolescent yokes, as cries this inner belief: this Viktor
perfume, such haiku embarrassments, our aglets undressing—as sorrowful souls,
our peanut-butter walls, our jams upon plantains:—this refusing grace, as true
to warfare, while I relish this art by long-for-distance. It yells at gravity, this tug as repellent,
and thus, this loose fitting agenda: as one cries, for thought a soul, where
evidence relies upon, I feel it deeply: this
man writhing, this soul diving, our insidious culture-biases: as participant soldiers, even festive cowgirls,
those crevices polished with silence.
We adore swans, this innocent richness,
this atypical personality: where bears are gentle, while snakes up-chuck venom,
as, nonetheless, our swans are forced to meditate.
