I
spark a cigar, reading models, this gravid paradigm (those morbid channels,
this gorilla fox, this Max Mara): as men craving, listening through graves,
excited over extinct literature (those burning books, this partial page, our
days at ingratiation): that soiled castle, that remote horizon, those precious
cries—as lives our cultures, at mutilated genetics, at partial neurons: this
scope by dreams, that wiggly butterfly, that super-sized roach: our cabinets
bleeding, our mothers to headlamps, our knuckles to footlights (this model
dreaming, this harlot at remorse, this curse as pursuing religiosities)—that
strange feeling, that strange beauty, our reckless imaginations. I nibble a prune, drifting through bowels,
while rinsing diamonds: this fact at life, our murky mayflies, our relished
swamps (as men reciting, or women at theater, reading this Italian play): that
deep reception, as cried our arcs, where love destined a calling fatality—those
wings wheezing, our rabid flapping(s), that eagle by kilometers: our British
knowledge, our British women, that African American Europe—as dead beadles, or
living lady bugs, either/or, this steep resentment: for youth is winning, while
consensus is guiding, as age becomes this requirement. I woke at cadence, to meet as disgruntle,
staring at chiseled thighs: this made vixen,
this Valentino model, those inner hieroglyphics (as men dying, while existent a
curse, at births laughing with false excitement)—this mental slant, this
relished rehearsal, those nine hours at studies: if but that test, to confess
our genius, as opposed to this variance by approvals: our extraordinaire women,
our debonair poets, that scientific countenance—as forever reaching, damn near
asunder, pushing through psychotic dimensions (to awaken in Xanadu, fiddling an
albatross, to awaken filled with rage)—that silent theft, our silent breaths,
this silent miracle—as but a glimpse, our L’Oreal third eye, our ecclesiastic eyelashes. We live as movers, rummaging spacial dusts,
hand-painting dusky skies: our deeper twilights, this remarkable rose, our rays
pining over swamps: this monster at tears, that sky-gavel crashing, and that
attempt at inner compunction (thereto, this steep dimension, this radical rake, our sickles too dull for
intuition): where dingo(s) gather, those electric brain particles, this jolt at
sudden a thought: or more esoteric, a thought to heartbeats, where volts soon
follow…to disappear, livid this hologram, gripping for dying at love with such
desperation (our childhood aches, our palatial spheres, at ages becoming quite
mechanical): our internet Paris, those bedroom islands, our souls cleaving for
mercy: our restless minds, our B.C. enchantments, our A.D. enthrallments: as a
puppy barks, cuddled by an infant—our eyes glossy (as memories swarm, our armor
melting, a bit eerie, that sudden frustration): this essence watching, our
inner computer typing, our hearts graded.
Tuesday, March 6, 2018
Brain Carnage
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 ...
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By language we speak to audibility and coherence. To compose to feel understood, in spite of language applied. A person spends years misunde...
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It rarely falls as it should. In forcing syntax, one dies. So precedented; one dream those days, and nerves were fretting. Affected by l...