Harps & Images

Sapphire bones, emerald arteries, and sci-fi passions; as living carcass, or radiant algae, fleeing into justice; this radical woman, so gentle our disgusts, so avid our hunger: to love as monsters, this florid humanity, our achy marrow: our dreams as cave-walls, our screams as nerve-endings, our synaptic church as havens: if but our terrors, gripping for rolling, pulling for affective bruising(s)—this small flower, by intimate shame, at cadence, humble our trespasses.  I recharge, floating roof-tiles, scudding as wafting, nibbling a feather: this insidious gem, our odorous gyms, this jinn tugging insanity: as graves cycle, these intimate ghosts,—her sins at fires those eyes: where spines shiver, this tongue to mansions, those ripples by Aesthetics: our craved islands, that azure waist-line, this oceanic explosion—while daunting our revels, as rebellious loon-winds, this inner apology.  I wanted deaths, or local caterpillars, as metaphors for poetry moving slowly: that fine air, those strapping calves, our ankles distorted as unions: that broken pillow, those chirping ceilings, our vests opening into dementias: that heavy kef, this blow to sandcastles, our incredible denial: this womb contracting, as once to pieces, our resilient orphisms—by opalescent cries, our dye to sheets, our violet life-demons—where others perish, we relish in geese, as something so delicate capable of sheer treachery: those lagoon roses, that frog laughing, this pelican aching our ministry.     Our stomachs rattle, this day for fasting, our mornings to 4a.m.: this downstage arena, our gourmet luxuries, or more a steak with red fever: our inner rehearsals, our internal cadenzas, this mental encore—as pure allegiance, or cursed for breathing, at cuts with lyrics falling for carried: our grand opera, those musical brains, those saxophone eyes—as crazed men, possessed by possession, rummaging trinkets from down south: such as teak crosses, or oaken promises, by maple engravings—those tall palm trees, this pagan agriculture, our sexual architecture: as paleontologists, or sexual psychologists, peering for abandoned to neuronic apertures: our gazes grazing, those yoga pants screaming, while Love is far removed from arousals.     We come to terms, abased by revelries, sentenced to pursuing our first endeavors—those beige casings, this see-through reflection, while left with self to decipher between arias: that inner man, that silent woman, this feeling where life was worthless—if not her mind, if not her guts, if not those yelps gnawing into grizzle: our spirits’ Fahrenheit, our souls to court-grooms, our brains as artist managers: that soothing gesture, our mourning aches, this bagel a bit too much cream-cheese: to hear complaints, while laughing our chests, lost in spiritual cantos: those brave pistons, this oily voice, that baritone languishing—as burning souls, or palming coals, our ladders blending into houses—where children run, as splintered an engine, looking for mother’s gentilities: those immortal signposts, this symbol craning, our daughters wiping tears.  [I get lost, attempting creativity, where, I love Us, bleeds into settee-marrow: this bold, delicate, festive woman, this miracle winnowing, this threshed for deaths crawling existence: this multiple woman, this strategic mother, this angst with losing this inner self: this professional as fetching, our manly insecurities, our hearts studying but losing concrete: our magical prisons, if but this need, while effected by mere a gesture: our animals bathing, our parrots annoying, our sons to souls that second kiss: as losing days, while gaining memories, our honey-melon teas].