I adore those eyes, this England fire, [those
German genetics]: this Danish Fly, this star-featured personality, as
floating—those Jewish tenets, this African Diamond, those green realities. I adore seeing life, this you in begonias,
this us sacrificed to eternity: our
Lexus lexicons, our Asian swans, our Fahrenheit screams—as multiple beings, enchanted by nuances, this last
achievement by passions: this flicker as facial, those sudden tears, our palms
fiddling ginger.
I adore this flame, as welkin hells,
stressed for Dynasties: this tender Confucius, this radical Sun Tzu, this hut
relinquished to pirates: our demands upon mirrors, this delicate Virgo, this wellic Libra, [this arriving
Pisces]. I love as captured, this
devastating reality, where said Love distresses trespasses: if but to runes, as
birds to skies, aflame an ache trenchant for scores: our emotions by quadrants,
our scars by determinants, this vandal inverted purely—as rhinestones bleed,
where a phoenix loses breath, while an Irish nun flogs firewood: our winded
undergrowth, this domestic lion, this ostrich appearing for victuals—as livid
souls, our disastrous love, this cage so steep and but so familiar—where
parishes cry, this kneel about funerals, this casket moving by atoms.
I’m home to sickness, a smirk as warning,
this asexual roadmap: this telic sunshine, this Hellenistic grape-cave, our
cements about our paved hunches: our burgundy eyes, standing stalwartly, a bit
concerned with privacy: those baboons, this genetic spacecraft, our weekdays
begrudging this system: if but to love, as love would die, our caskets symbolic
allegiance.
I know for swamis, this electric mist,
pushing for tumbling fire-prints: this cultic samurai, those Celtic mind-waves,
this furnace too at ease but tremendous: that casual converse, peering at
graves, that intricate window-spider—as dying to escape, or running to
dungeons, this complaisance with living beyond vices: that tender comfort,
those familiar spaces, this cry to sunlight afire an orgasm: if but to dream,
as shared this venom, while alive come night-pledges.
Hi
Love:
…that Bugatti engine, this selfie
portrait, our Mercedes Souls—as mere trees, or colorful leaves, sprinting
through tribal instincts—aloft a galaxy, sprinkling African cults, abolished
for founded running through pyramids: those quartz to lights, this barometer
broken, those aqua-brown treasures: our blue-fire dreams, our jasper-birds,
this tar-taupe wisdom—where parents whisper, afflicted for breathing, boxing
for carving emeralds: our wells speaking, this furious reality, to compose as
reaching this inner scope: where Bugs is naïve, as Daffy becomes offensive,
while Yosemite stirs trenchant frustration: our minds to flights; our Tasmanian
insights, a pyramid of yogis knocking: if but to vanish, as soon to return, our
three year voyage through Jerusalem: as conjuring facts, this steep conjecture,
our souls becoming orators: if but to grays, this inner gemstone, this precious
jade. We live resolutions, while warring
our slumber, about our spirits are collars: this priestly swan, this necktie
dove, this feather upon teardrops: while alive at voice, persecuted at core,
fumbling for perfecting our aircraft machineries: this typical numbness, our
days to surrendering, our shapeless powers: where swans flourish, such
masteries driven, arising for soaring beyond limits: those inner tweets, this
unknown basin, our verdant valleys.
