Wednesday, February 7, 2018

Ex-habilitation pp.175-76


I required rehab, this emotional damage, guzzling water and popping Vitamin B.  I drove iron, sipped coffee, and pondered this losing legacy: if cursed we live, this inverted reality, this phantasmagoria: our mental ghosts, those hosts of lusts, our feelings desiring clarities: those bowlegged cries, such autumn plush, this reddish-orange moon: as scratching fevers, or listening wisely, while attitude flourishes at a distance: [this livid monster, as composed swans, flapping for paragliding—or hydroplanes, or cutting precision, or unconventional addicts…to die by smidgens, our women meowing, attached to pitted guts: this teak design, this autonomous loser, this feeling as if winning: those winter thoughts, this William’s travesty, our Roger’s stressed for peaceful: that man running, this daughter howling, our mothers pointing as amazed by manias: that fixed chaos, that blatant behavior, this reason to grip those that beckon.  I laugh as backwards, as mother would chime, our lives as backgammon—or gin-rummy, or slamming dominoes: that fair game, those vulgar gestures, that abrasive language: our Collin’s Empire, this inner telephone, our quickness to answers: that shorn provocation, this woman laughing, our dreams to tears as aborted—those welkin hells, this contradiction, our wooden-vines: if but for love, as seeking redemption, our darkest powers utilized to adore addicts: those concertmasters, as dictating behaviors, while flustered this welt to actions: that passive man, those passive screams, while comfortable with self only in privacies: those women watching, this stressed overseer, this river that office our flights: to become whistles, as worshiped madness, this welt bleeding its flesh].     Choreographers     I grow in you, that musical symbol, that psyche composer…but hell to Us, as finding closure, those contralto veins—to cry as living, or die as spinning, where it felt good to relive mother’s enterprise: that woman crawling, while death was clawing, our gnawing on bones in sheer celebration: this curtain call, our dates as demanded, this daughter as far too gorgeous: where death was love, as love was selfish, this angular perception: those psychs streaming, this psychologist frustrated, our wails to sanity as born with weeds: our incessant bleeding, our da-capo-arias, this velvet sunny sky: where cascades bury, this sundry of flies, our Irish communities stressing survival: that man churning, while scraping quarters, to find with leniency this demented friend: our inner luxuries, this Anguish Fire, our directors committing treason: this Foreman Empire, this loss by wages, this type by Hiccups: if but to sail, fretting Poseidon, afflux a blessing living our curses.      (I’m staged down, or rights-to-breath, at membrance this fatal dream: our throats aching, this liquor laughing, while rehab is calling: this perfect loser, this losing perfection, those complaisant stars living by anguish—but far received, their children whining, this luxury to appeasements).     Electronics     Let us fly, reaching tulip-skies, affected by dejection: this changed force, those bright meadows, this time to wail reflections…as sensing ash, this third-temple-universe, our scars to constellations: our grand-opera, or heroic screams, to fiddle with passions this stern agony: our perfect silence, as reaching compositions, to demand that silence runs into vocals: our mental baritones, our banda paradises, our daughters’ bel-cantos—as brilliant eyes, or crazy dreams, or duet brains—to function slightly, as above our myriads, while barely at functions: that full capacity, that violent stream, this tug for purpose while aflame: if but her heart, or that subtle persona, as stresses our mental eyes: to appear that second, while partial to residence, where it felt good  to perish in you.     Full Production     We trigger lights, as assuming costumes, fiddling with legendary props—that autumn makeup, our designed audience, this piano’s opera—as alive with vehemence, or velvet with venom, to channel for charged at love so far those zephyrs: those brown eyes, that slight to jasmine, this daisy-affair as strangled for reaching: those tall vestibules, this summer’s hanger, our tales to lights where death was captured: that necklace encore, this rich ensemble, our souls as rebellious electricians: as but a dream, or casual seams, this thread those brains our treasury.
                                                                                            

Choosing Symbols

    To speak of spirit is speculation, albeit, a symbol, filled with meaning and designation. In my hunger for the symbol, in my thirst for ...