It tears softly, this determination, at
terrors with silence: this reticent machine, this sachet soul, this wretched
compassion; where dungeons cedar pains, and islands become public, while
life-bugs desire fumigation. I’ve
campaigned thoughts, allergic to gentilities, attempting to part a woman from
her profession: this liquid bottle, this addict
watching, this tale of this demented lad: our daughters to reasons, our mothers
to miseries, this returning catastrophe: as cemented feelings, this stagnant
destiny, those miracles a second for making love: if but to live, this
strawberry castle, this likeness to romance—as chances fools, this terrible
mystic, this horrible chaos: where frenzy is heart, while heart becomes
deathness, where love was sweet before departures. I died for years, this repeated explosion,
seated so perfectly in private: to hope with brains, this seeping into squares,
while remorse became hatred: this mother at penchants, this father at regrets,
our days to lying through wilderness—as, nevertheless, this cherished palace,
our dreams tacked to helium boards. I
fancy grayly, pulled asunder, at pains concerning longevity: this wanted
element, this regretted element, this feeling desiring fleetingness: in tears,
a fool, as clawed through sewers, at membrance those crooked elations: that
jasper insight, that taupe intuition, that manikin gaze—as poker giants, this
rebated arch, those sentient responses: this soul jerking, this body thrashing,
those feelings touching soft flesh: that thieving derriere, those supple
breastplates, this armor contorted to enchantments: our days to screaming, our
nights to yelling, this threat posed when truths nigh closer. (We fire waters, as bathing in poisons, at
love this detriment as writers: We love daughters, our sons as protégés, our
feelings as signposts: this furious woman, this addict father, such as anger becoming violent: this rush to souls,
this cadent brain, our operations frightening normality: this thing for suffering, as never a word, while tumors
grow into baby boomerangs). I desire as
losing, this self evolving, where simplicity has become appalling: while beauty
stings, as flushed by resentments, to want this element as sole creator: by love
a fool; by pains a maniac; by passions a monster gnawing gravity: this flying minx,
this radical sylph, this turn as sex becomes soul-force: if but to sights, this
texture gasping, while men frequent familiar castles: this dream for essence,
this essence as ‘something’, this vest forbidden from secerning love: as
children running, aborted to ghettoes, to find this traumatic union through
struggles: our lives as snails, or slithery creatures, or more this group
stricken with integrity—as fallen voices, this battle for breath, our computers
heating gently. (I tug-of-war, this
feeling self, but far too removed to love: this daily name, this furious
creature, where arts depend upon rafts: those rowing senses, this darkness
kiss, this subtle disgust—as fleeing into deserts, alert and dusty, a bit tired
and musky: our love as heathens, buried in scriptures, this pair of alcoholics: where recovery frowns, as
pushing unreality, to ignore mirrors while passing judgments). I float a tare, this weed to winds, composing
for dying: this wilderness woman, this needed romance, this enchant that comes
through simplicity—as born pillagers, delving deep by souls, to present this
atypical event: this trenchant love, this existential love, this epistemic
love—where passions ensue, as dead to life, while engrossed by love: as such
afflatus, this torn eureka, this rabid serendipity: as crying for laughing, or
laughing for crying, our stomachs those keels upon yachts: this riveting flirt,
this heart to coyotes, this rebirth through songbirds: our aches with rains,
our purple paradises, this flavor too resistant for tastes: as opalescent
Neptune, or emotional indigestion, this force designed for dying.
