Mandolins & Geese

…albeit, love, this relative invention, I’d died our roses: those velvety eyes, those torrent cries, this wiggle for positions: our cavelike essence, our sidings with Neanderthals, our scissors by Africa…if goddess portraits, leering through dementias, tugged for dragged eating impatience: this psych to methods, this shaman to sherm(s), this yogi afflux an inner chamber…to hate his wife, while encouraged internally, our wars dictating humanity: those bold screams, this dream-catching angst, our flames reported as delusions.     […we influx passions, as vomiting fluids, tore for stolen from Reason: this drooling sanity, this leaking richness, our cores to afflatus as bent towards hells: our professors adjusting, becoming orators, while sunshine fails that shaded oak: this poison so sweet, this field so desolate, our brains committing mimicries—as desolation, our steep mockeries, this engine undressing its parts: as blatant nonsense, until that second, our heart’s satori—as agony repenting, or feelings washed, where it felt good to wail profanities…as earth to soil, or soil to breath, our profane exemplary….].     It’s been hell, this purgatory, this calendar inverted: (as more our rudiments, this abstract reality, these mental imageries…to spaces as existent purely by thoughts)…where wretched resides, this casual savior, while Love aches a verb: to up-live deaths, as diamonds-flower, while puffed for existence: our cadence retorted, our essence flaming, this fan a symbol spinning this life: as saintly fools, or hurdling winds, this tip so enchanted we die.     Such silken spines, alive a curse, at voices dining with metaphors: as disheartened men, or but a bruise, while golden faces attend to panic: our lazy eyes, this dream in raptures, our convergence blinking its detriments: if but to cognac, if but forgetfulness, if but an insane asylum—this love for women, this adoration for partners, this ache bleeding our pharmacies: where Love was perfect, as needing this infection, while told by reality those tendencies to forgive: this wellic heart-stance, this brain-war-care, our agonies pleading remission: those remnants dying, this sand becoming holy, our quail as but redemption: this shadow knitting, this touchstone ragging, this keystone reality—where mother is gentle, while father runs madness, this slight leniency.     […i sip, Estancia; I maneuver pains; this life to feathers adrift a scar: our accordion membranes, our synaptic tidal-waves, this fever for acceptance as feeling abstract: our blatant abuses, this lie as fruitful, our moral compass exploding.     We take to miseries, as infusing existence, our minds fiddling keels: this steepness burning, those indifferent thoughts, this occasion for passions lingering towards deaths: to fumble at times, laughing at insanity, as pure a man struggling with Reality: this voiceless symbol, those scented panties, this filthy tub: as raindrop friends, or spiritual advisors, this second so steep we see skeletons.     i toil glimmer, as but a soul, fretted for filtered frittering this love affair: our nights that instance, our days that sentence, this beauty ark destroying our salvation: as typos skip, where thoughts are rapid, a woman ten tears into her garbs….].     Our chantress dreams, this mental mirror, this mental charm—as never to odors, or crusty feet, this thing women tend to—as beyond Xanadu, cleaving to Romanticism, to garnish a feeling leaking into profanities: our colors blending, this set of instructions, to course with life this Private Academy: as picklock’d souls, our kids seeking allies, our ballads reaching through story-grains.     (i love as dying, to feel as flying, this daughter his screams: as Fable thunders, while Love is sick, where days remote to vacant sea-boards: our whales laughing, our seahorses jotting, this seal adrift for this gripping panic: our inner fulcrums, this magician psychologist, this fruit as bitter with sweetness: to die resurrection, as feral with fiction, where it feels good to see Us).