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.
