Research Features

I long as distorted, veering through dementias, and treading about delusions.  I cuss in private, vexed atop costumes, and fleecing another masquerade: this delirious passion, our seconds afloat, while curious those demonic eyes.  I sip psychotics, an erotic drool, preparing for telic days: this man to lone-ships, this ocean to Mercedes, our brains to this hex slipping by darkness: as casual light-hawks, or squirrels crawling moons, while Neptune has gone psychoses.  We live for goodness, inhaling a cigarette, famous for domestication: those jumpy-jacks, our noonday gin, this element as life as sought by pilgrims.  I met love; I died hell; I see us in a billion eyes: those flippant lips; our demographics; this losing by realities: as pressure blooming, where relics perish, our pirates headed to rehab.  Its hellish glory, a feature at a second, realizing loses: this destructive inquiry, this motive bleeding, our daughters hard to conclusions—where mother dies, as cursed with burning, our loins but a second at easiness.  I feel amiss, seated in mist, a million miles to madness: this mystic airwave, this mystic mother, our biblic addicts—where psychiatry films, while psychologists gather, as fluxed to exist death’s philosophies—our achy acorns, this tide to seas, our sands as more a magician’s sawdust—insomuch, a scar, as battered a damsel, to awake pleading for forgiveness: this steep sickness, this metaphor claiming existence, this silence becoming our lambs: if but aggressive, to die slowly, while humble as passive cringing, nonetheless: this triggered yawn, this revelation, this seeking for fumbling through scriptures: that lowercase, those aces to graves, this joker poking Pinocchio—that gremlin chancing, those roses dancing, our pushing by roots through soil—where passions are ghostly, while addicts are irresistible, to ride this wave as dying that curse: our vacant gardens, this Japanese aroma, this season to garlic [if but to exist]: as pagans traipsing, or deserts lonely, to purchase a pint while aborted as souls: this casual love, as potent his brains, to exit as entrances this carnival—where mothers laugh, as fathers cave, this slot in whirl-style heartaches.

I adore knowing, as rare a songstress, rumbling through noisy meadows: this soul gawking, where wounds are prevalent, our terror to nights alone a vacant scream: this rush of poison, gripping satin pillows, sweaty for exhausted: this ache breathing, this person smiling, this demon as eyes to mirrors: our balanced dance, this infamous design, those to arts as invoking a serious calamity: that terrible elation, this fall to dungeons, our passions as more a hoax.  I needed elixir, if but relaxed frost, as bitten for tussling with fire: this intimate creature, advanced at feelings, while fools run from emotions: our mental strengths, at wars with inner flux, while concluded a dying travesty: it but to fly, as caged at vex, where forbidden this island of dissipation: those crazed souls, while claiming possession, seated six galaxies afar contenders.