I palm sands, agaze’d for horizons, and
chuckling softly: these desert winds, this desert pond, those flapping geese:
if but her eyes, as akin to dying, if but her cries: this voice in men, hoping
for closure, while, nonetheless, assassinated: this pilgrim chase, this
faceless Ghost, our rehab rivers: as pure mud, influenced through feelings,
arising as astronauts: this nothing likeness,
this nothing video, our nothing wildness. I’m there,
Love, as voiced in trenchant(s), at membrance unto silent violence: that
endless film, this shiftless anger, our carriage swinging: that wishful
thought, this Chanel jacket, and those mystic aches: as purity eyes, or Gucci
greens, while afloat by love longing for pigeons: this man broken, as whole at
parts, if but enough to trigger jealousies…that wakeful hour, those instant
volts, this exchange by strangers: to love his brains, while to honor his
shames, tingling with sheer ecstasy: our Dior moistures, this pouch by Powers, our agonies forming
pictures. I saw Africa, this woman in
Prada, this bag of silence. I saw
elegance, this infant swan, our moments so keen: this jacket wailing, our
responses taught, as something buried screaming its deaths: that plain
exaggeration, those passing grades, this Cėline disaster—to rupture with
fevers, accustomed to pantomimes, scratching for sealed in algae. (I hanker softly, yearning for bawling, while
assassinated by theology: this hallowed man, this hollowed soul, by screams
forbidden from islands: this mythic angst, this rehab loser, those funerals too
bold for closure: that closed casket, those old eyes, this mother gripping
grass: if but to hear, this seagull’s cry, our shores witnessed to maniacs:
that ravishing hug, that big-eyed psychotic, this channel five extravagance:
where fathers listen, while silent with aches, where cursing seems unappealing:
our Maybelline tattoos, our studio violence, our brows hung upon high—where
father up-graved, fleeing into graphics, this music so sweet its inversion: to
grin at white fir, sporting BVLGARI, spinning for laughing seen in London: that
tale to Jacobs, that sail to prisons, this penchant in brains).
Afflatus
Sins
I dance, Giorgio, or crane insanity,
pushing with purpose this melic beam: to die while living, or live while
shining, where devilish tugs assassinate kindness: this infant swan, this
infant agony, this adult anguish—to cut with life, this blueberry compassion,
our cries to relic seas: that steep treasure, this pirate instinct, our maidens
through muddy-whites: that rainbow irony, this father to sips, our days as
convalescents…that future tile, to sense genius, our plaid’d albinos: or waves
swooshing, this cedar-wood, our boats barely afloat: that fine mile, to sense
your gaze, while tortured this inner image: those rare garments, those Batman
luxuries, those Superman jewels…our reddish vintage, this veiled flower, those
velvet dresses: if purchased as gain, to lose as winning, while thrust at soul—simultaneous
feelings…those Valentino models, cut for crumbling, or crooked for
guzzling—while mother laughs, our psyche eyes, this brain pleading its cousin…to
up its sores, at core revelries, abandoned to futures those swanic glens…as but
his minds, this inner puma, those chiseling sentences…that vacuumed queen,
those vacuumed souls, this Danish Hierarchy…where father pains, as groveling in
private, while grandmother felt a sudden swoosh: our parents living, as deceased
with times, forever forbidden from claiming peace…that winter’s Bottega, that
purse to fire, this Calvin Klein prophecy.
