…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.
