Rainbow Colour Pegs

I miss me, that volatile daredevil, as built for vandalism: this cave bleeding, this woman to instincts, as void of trepidation: our carnal cries, this lie as life, our fields as screaming professors.  I rain panic, this steep interest, while sipping, Revelation: those Gucci feelings, this Versace illness, our manuscripts dismissing humanity: if but to eyes, that correlation, but buried as breathing, [while seething existence]: this rich penalty, our cross-examinations, this pollen stuffy for exoneration: our blatant women, this forceful guild, while too many to discern.  […]     I love as sickly, this session in souls, to remove reality while gripping mental motions: that statuesque mayhem, this hemmed pavement, this debit rejecting its first purchase—as miracle deaths, this daughter’s essence, this granny born to acquiesce—while feeling wretched, concerned with addiction, too feeble for falling this broken flute: our Arlissa’s beauty, this terrific problem, our men seeking for permanent prodigies: if but for sung, as hung his guts, this sad, secure, surgery.  I loved as distorted: I claimed as terrific: It was hell a helmet touching this behavioral maniac: as taught indifference, listening to psychologists, laughing for poker’d as drilled this cadence: our lavish deaths, our broken wholeness, this mystic to mind while seasoned to explode: our catty emotions, this fever dejected, our nights to seeking Chow Mein—as laughing maniacs, or sherm-leaf explorers, peering at red underlines.     It was green light, sectored in dungeons, a month to mystery meats: this salmon fetish, this English muffin, our years to mad ass insanity: those burgundy glasses, that brown homogeny, this blue denim life-cuff—where psychs examine, as aloof to essence, while Love explores a territory of suitors: this fatal assessment, our agendas weaving, for stuck at impasses: our Cover Girl patience, this exotic wildflower, to enter by collapses: those bracket hats, that lyrical womb, those theological polemics—where brains shift, as enlove with testy, to move with interior kindness: our days to blasé, our waves to crazy, this immortal part-time hydroplane: our addict president, this lowercase, as demanding impeachment: if but to miracles, thwarted for frustrated, another pint at our tribunals.  (I sin a culture, laughing for frantic, abated by realities: this special design, as captured a glance, to withness our increasing weights: as men suffering, nagged for tortured, this moment of clearance so passionate: where Lucifer dies, this image as delusion, while admiring Maya; indeed to curses, as bullets ricochet, while our pale queens deliver ruined livers). I echo essence, this mirror so crooked, at terms to defend irregular resolutions: this hand cramping, this father livid, our days to comportments: if but to language, sensing intensities, this inflective disdain: our broken watches, our negligees, this man refusing heart-crept deception: while mother laughs, as escaping to return, where hazel lenses fleet through graphics: as souls captive, this seventy years, wishing for afloat this notion of flying: our lute besmearing, this dung as hectic, our marsh as extravagant sensitivities: as lost his mind, while sex was afoot, where it took a day to efface a young swan: our hearts to pillars, our dreams to Midas, this touch if but to redeem.  I respect wars, if tentative(s) are absent, while vying to perish for more than oil: our present president, but a man to gambling, a tear too offensive: as turns our guts, or churns our intestines, afflux this steady outlash—where liqueur becomes features, as daughters become resistant, while wives lose respect: this King Monday, our Kingdom-ship, our realities serving as behaviors: this febrile goddess, this manic man, our addictions as splintered embraced but racist.  I ache existence     I chime gravity     I insist upon a losing disposition:     this craving sanity, as pillowed unto savannahs, this internal alligator:     to cry love, while pouting love, as never an account of this existence called love:     our broken bulbs     this wellic psychiatry     this aching psychologist—as knowing Socrates, to side with Protagoras, while effective through pathos.