We’re half asleep, debating wildness, our
spirits on vibrate—that rumbling stomach, this insistent control, our winters
to fasting(s): those crinkly eyes,
this aesthetic built, our richness denying our sewers—as mere men, as crazed
lavishly, thrusting for pulling living our porn. (I changed substances, this reticent
confession, while sipping with uneasiness: this mega philosophy, as enchanted
by likeness, at odds with instincts: our clear grandparents, our aunts to
wines, our saints to treacherous valleys: as died a feeling, to arise holiness, debating if mercy gallops: our
charming antiques, those African trinkets, our jewelry-box invisibilities: that
ghostly figure, those clammy features, this melting reality—while cursed with
extravagance, peering through pinholes, at terrors riding our camels: [this
deep fixation, leering into esthetics, a tear too mesmerized to speak…coupled
by derriere, or tortured by infant instincts, while abased as ridiculed by
insouciant smiles…that bleeding log, to relish at torments, or abandoned to
natural-mudslides—as, nevertheless, resistant for Church, this indebted
doctrine, our bodies behaving instilled with hypocrisies: our horns flaring,
this subtle converse, this woman at his shoe size: those trippy comments, this
art to prose, our legacies dismounting for rosaries: this fasting frenzy, at
sacred high-planes, to needle a woman’s aura]: insofar, to rescues, this steep
disappointment, to rebuild Judas: our trenchant miracles, to love as
regardless, seated while knitting chemistries: those concrete roses, this
cloudy tulip, this sky to castles—as living up-side-down, or desperate for
right-side-up, fretted for love nibbling blueberry bagels). We trestle thoughts, as pristine as Lamborghinis,
a tare to gardens pleading innocence: our excessive words, that first glance,
as never to forsake our clarity mirrors: that sandbox infant, that nine year
old wisdom, those wings to hopes as partly too shallow: if but as sung,
slapping cymbals, or that steep enchantment with drums: that first kiss, this
ghetto island, our infatuation with instincts.
It must be life, this
whirl about winds, this weaving of skeletons—or high atmosphere, this leniency
towards caters, this buffet of admiration: that kettle resounding, this
resonance as lethal, our resistance as masterpieces: this kitten purring, this
jaguar nesting, our seconds to completeness—to yearn about feelings, threshed
for ruined, at courtside jesters. It
must be love, as so it was sung, this Tao of insistence: those lake-view algae,
this swan about ponds, this theater attempting to capture subtleties—as men
driven, warring against glaciers, while chiseling our palaces. It must persist, this magician with hats, our
designs partly persuaded: as insecurities, this need for passions, this
mizzling insanity: at cuts for perfect, this family with legends, a tear
seduced by fleetingness: this human essence, this human condition, those
relished excitements—as purity flourishes, this man about disguises, tapping
for tugging at lasciviousness: our antic pianos, our morning harps, while one
grows resentful towards pompoms: our contradiction, our revealed paradox, this
need for incessant enchantments—or deep community, this pleat to love, where
seconds become irreplaceable.
