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.