I chime remorse, this fever in men, our wrists shackled with shames: this
florid travesty, alert for bawling, at tender aches: our acid rivers, our
loquat beavers, this tale told as solid: our remarks, our temperaments, this
feeling screaming by passions: alive a curse, sifting through forests, alarmed
for bothered sipping cognac: this reckless
disease—those casual upheavals, this demented sense where all must be included:
our raggedy brains, this tortured self, our
whispers where lights are dim. I love a
daughter, while battered by thoughts, at lineage this psychological maze—while
feeling special, if just enough, whereat, stands this pagan’s illusion: our
camels thirsty, our mothers to convictions, this woman as sold under tyrannies:
if but for panic, this salacious escape, our words biasness, audible: at steep conflicts, aborted to caves, and spasm
to concerns that guillotine. I remote to
islands, if but for breaths, a tear eerie pouting L’Oreal: this engine revving,
this daughter to faculties, our sensibilities devastated: that calm sadness,
this electric charge, our grandparents at treacherous sulfur: that battle
weaning, this impish village, those welts at sudden our morning debates. We love as tortured, our emotions plural, a
person wishing clearance as monsters our mirrors: those tall meadows, this sugarcane
brawling, our parakeets laughing at dementias; indeed, to mayhem, our kilns
reverted, our helms bleeding injustice—as asked a soul, to forgive Jubilee,
while provoked a ladder that dead mother.
We prod destiny, while agony sails, to adjust for purpose this perfect
picture: if but to live, our mothers as addicts,
our fathers as lunar-wicks: where one
ventures, whereat, this meeting of selves,
insofar, this escaping to return: our vagabond instincts, our radical
high-lands, this terrible, resourceful, reminder of terrors: to want clemency,
as accused but accursed, where stepfathers acquiesce. I felt astonished, as tugged a whetstone,
flourished at rites while dead a fever: those hazel dreams, that tenure body,
those inner theses—at love with pains, this feud of phantoms, to discern as about
this shallow ocean. I could to die, at
women with ashes, feeling for collapsed a devious night-call: this theorem
grieving, this passion uncaged, our futures toiling for grandfather’s approval:
to live a man, or more a death, at life with wings sprawled by cliffs: this
Cajun design, this rebel’s dynasty, this loss as more his dementias: as asked
for patience, but waiting infinitely, while all to pockets this scratching
sensation: our burgundy wines, our psychs to minds, this woman as more to
deadly perfections. I saw inquiries,
while adjudging disposition, to witness one realizing this human: our labors
gone; our brains resuscitating; this drowning in something lethal: our brooks
reviving, our siblings at raptures, our professors livid with powers: to garden
front lawns, or pillage old attics, while alive a foot deep in mire: this
welkin drool, this shadowed confession, this mourning where mother was rabid:
as casual heartache, or inner heart-quakes, this remission as interludes to
more chaos. I love our swan, this delicate iron, this auburn winter: our orange
panics, this anxiety’s haven, our purple lemons: if but to life, as told for
fortunes, this miracle a son as forgiven: our quest with rivals, our brains to
survival, this anchor as adored—where Love laughs, as filled with contempt, while
a poet strikes at endless sensations: our ears bleeding, our aches ringing,
this spoon so long as barely a glimpse. I
must survive, as merely dead, while countenance speaks to intrepid vengeance:
this lake to deers, this valley to coyotes, this leopard as rearranging his
spots: as embed in soil, this root with eyes, our branches appearing before
tribunals: this inner velvet, this speaking helmet, our breastplates refusing
to trespass: as more to death, this treading trapeze, while wobbling for
comforts: this brief estate, this brevity climate, our mothers resorting to old
kindergartens: those habits at steaks, those see-through sorrows, this welt to
arks where father was wishing: if but to live, surpassing pathos, this invention becoming voiceless.
