Innocence

It was lost, as pricking soil, aroused at gravesites: this miracle bleeding, at full recourse, slithering for shining at pulpits: our dangerous wives, our winter, Glee Club, this tremendous beauty: as purely crazy, this violent nature, our bodies as lethal machinery: those drugged eyes, our grogged souls, our staggering through orgasms: that winded window, those wooded wine glasses, our gregarious guts.     I saw rebels, our debated scandals, feeling empathetic to ceiling grasshoppers: those mirrored meerkats, those gumbo locusts, our cocoa with shots of Folgers: if but so gorgeous, as cries our wits, to grip for dying while purged of sanity—that insidious smile, those marvelous limbs, that face by shoulders as sheer excitement: while blood trickles, this moon in jasmine, this teal-green sunshine, (our burgundy powders): as shaking gravity, those tender palms, as violent as Roman gladiators: or humble with bishops, while ravished by power, or gutted with sheer abuse: that angular death, that jugular breath, this deep meditative monster.          {…we sparked for darkness, reading manuscripts, leaping into mysteries: this fragile island, those fragile wounds, this hint by attitudinal trespasses: our passions screaming, this shared legacy, as realizing this scent by Innocence: our sluggish language, that volt to Alaska, this Canadian dream-care: our doors squeaking, our floorboards laughing, our credenzas weeping: this settee watching, this ottoman jealous, our eyes to Jamaican wands: if but as living, gnawing into flesh, at radical, high pitched responses: this drug roving, as wondering characteristics, our vehicles as enslaved Mohegans: this tender inheritance, to go beyond B.C., moving by destruction arriving at hell’s gates: this kitchen melting, this pot squealing, our rice stirred unto disappearance: this envied woman, as physicality, depicted as ruined destroying by presence: our latent growls, those pit-bull instincts, those saber-tooth eyes: our carnival mayhem, this clown’s parade, our sinister chimes—while perfected as winners, losing our refuge, finding with heights those thoughts to fly….}.     I loved a feeling, killing its minds, while retracted at sullen gates: this man running, this jaguar tipsy, this leopard climbing: to reappear, as stumbling dreams, our bodies soaking our satin: that heated debate, those lavish voice-arts, this soul to madness: as caged agendas, at flights by millennia, our medieval obituaries.     We crave completeness, our women vigil, our brains deliberating: this jury hung, this promiscuous spirit, our tales by seldom voices—if but to resist, as thrust into wilderness, our mortuaries haunted by ghosts…to lose that ache, to unveil poodles, our eyes spewing darts: at pure velocity, roaming our brains, roaming our castles].