Wednesday, January 3, 2018

Silent Midwaves

I lit a clove, this caressing feeling, this airwave portrait: our kind solaces, our pasty aches, this river but dried molasses.  I toppled a drink, at fires with coffee, drinking pure energy: that seal lingering, this image but illusion, our lethargic futures—where birds whistle, as pythons wink, while meerkats snuggle: this cringing voice, at havens by delusions, at carnivals this living-room caricature.  I lit a clove, at love this essence, so close to suggesting nuances: this internal workshop, this therapeutic, those years perfecting sophistications: our honeysweet barbeque; our bell-peppers with beef; our filet mignon steaks: this jagged space-cave, this nibbling passion, this streaming gown—as opiate whites, or cannabis greens, this trench separating religions—as pure death, alive this entrance, to sacrifice feeling awkward.  I lit a clove, admiring this visage, favoring her spine: I saw remorse, cursed to resistance, where unsaid folly dwells within: this repeated movie, this dying motif, those redundant themes: at rain-tears, or bear wars, conversing with ferrets: (such gray skies, but gloomy smoke, baiting hooks—this music as walking, this valley as desolate, this one green dragon: our fires bleeding, our hearts at rituals, our love censored as contagion).  I squeezed oranges, as blended with lemons, but a touch of kiwi: I ate pastrami fries, a measure of ranch, a measure of frustration: I ached a feeling, slammed into dreams, awakened by ghostly chills: this steep inheritance, this flying miracle—our years to recanting a mutual error: this antsy dust, this dusky passion, this complaisance as borderline depression: our muddy eyes, cleansed with fevers, at terrors this emotion for pains: that gravid sensation, those timeless tentacles, this reach as losing its rendezvous.  I felt with ghosts, as self-acclaimed, soaring for fried this natural whirl-circuit—our cagey cries, fumbling through manuscripts, those seconds to completion—our rabid sensorium(s), this trenchant for essence, this substance while self-invented—as charisma bubbling, or an omen countenance, this other world besprinkled as voiceprints: this clove sightless, this mountain but glimpses, this deterioration unto nothingness: while watching philosophies, as morbid a child, and far too underdeveloped—where dignity stirs gravel, this drinking of sediments, this churning gut—as vomit with blood, this vein dancing, our weaving becoming too intense.


[…you drift skies, crumbling crayons, fumbling through mental sketches: our classy daughter, this miracle sibling, this fleet of secret castles: this grown household, this Rubik’s Cube, this exponential challenge: as seething politically, or writhing with sincerity, slapping for yelling a cigarette to earth: our wellic cries, as torn existentially, trekking this lagoon of mystics: this wavy feeling, this rising heart, those stumbling kittens: where ventriloquists live, while veterinarians hear wolf-hounds, this essence drawing cultic blood.  You invite ghosts, those steep experiments, rereading psalms: this partial read, hearing such contempt, scorned for naivety: this space streaming, those gutty responses, this trenchant fascination—where Mary sings, as Samson dies, our hearts carrying Martyrs: this woman to flames, this man to lions, this cleaving for craving this divine shadow—as resistant appearances, this wretched sub-passage, those facial visitations: that part to perish, this world to gold, our aches blended with unrealities: this chasing by leaves, this colorful teddy bear, our hopes filled with dreams: as jaded souls, enmeshed in analyses, our speech becoming aphoristic: this tacky disposition, while carved a realist, speeding by enthusiasm: our sins covered, this fluffy puppy, our years to three Golden Retrievers.  You sight misprints, as a blueprinted soul, fleeing for flying those nights to feelings: this conglomerate mystic, or this sagic Buddhist, or God forbid this percolating Catholic—as sheer to humble, or thrust for madness, this agony afloat a keen intellect: our minds as machinery, our muscles requiring training, this vest by one so silent….].       

PS.

    The strength to withstand the winds; a spell as it effects/affects some creature. A sudden moment filled with absolute certainty, so wro...