We
desire lighters, this flamboyant vessel, this kiss as dementia; but not to
graves, as enslaved by trauma, but more, this psychotic freedom: our welts, our
wishes, our welding(s): if but to fly, this daughter’s reality, accursed for
possessed living inwardly: this high horizon, that auroras sun-candy, those
griffin wings: as laughs a swan, so steep to cherish, as alive picturing
insanities: those bold cries, that therapeutic lance, this cut dripping its
substance: that philosophic, this glass of cognac, this granny at love this
forbade’d soul: our precious islands, as refusing pleasures, at pride infused
with discomforts: that mountain, Moses, that Egyptian, Aaron, our notions as
out-casted tyrants: this feminist vision, our slates wiped clearly, our dreams
recurring through stressors: this theologic, this inner resentment, those pages
as panties where Love rebuked—that feral man, as enlove with travesties, to
presume this mental character: our salad brains, our liver hearts, or more this
creative ladybug: as dying with vengeance, or living with cadence, to presume
something unclear: that welkin ballet, those welkin alarms, this sophisticated
and well-groomed adversary: where mother laughs, to witness insecurities, at
once, to ignite an ethnic torch. I
became warnings, as flushed with attraction, to sense something cringing: this
immortal genetic, those neuronic mazes, this push as rebuilt through, Love: our
caviar nights, our weeds with intensions, this biblic ritual: those pictures
whining, as to induce remembrance, where Love is aching this shorn escape: our
Irish liquor, our Danish designs, this Australian catalogue—where father lives,
this inner purgatorial, our minds cramping with investigations: that vague
goodbye, our daughter’s wintery eyes, our mothers cleaving to their future
seeds: that conversation, this psychic revelation, our tyranny for clarities
screaming at our witnesses: if but to exhaust, this inner mute, our
twilight-arms reaching for tribunals: our ambiguity, this Immortal Father, at
crosses pollinating this Immortal Mother: as shivering Indians, our lands to
crucifixions, our colonies colonized: this burden of beasts, this chief of
perfections, about as wretched as living that native abandonment: (that is to
say), this dejected creature, as far too fabulous, our beasts at Love with
sheer ingratiation. It comes with
passion, our stringed instruments, where keen observation condemns a nation of
violence: hitherto, this guilty gut, our daughter’s magic, those grandparents
wishing for solutions: to see this soul, as aloof to converse, while pleading
for Father’s tribunal: our achy bones, our lifting by weights, as accustomed to
swearing: our yonic women, as those parentheses, depicting total pandemonium—where
men drift, our kittens purring, as it felt by life those seconds at, Love.
I
reappear, an unsung hero, but a lambent fool: this woman as crossed, this tale
as lost, our ability to regroup: those garden flakes, this flinging mind, our
energies bundled for that terrific out-thrash: our curses as cures, this azotic
flagon, abreast alongside this kef: that marvelous woman, as sinning her
marvelous soul, to come at nights pleading survival: hereto, this mercy given,
this wretchedness frying, this moon bleeding—as men shiver, where daughters
uplift, at girths listening to this planetarium: if gusts would speak, as
hearts would flutter, this powerful soul acquainted with chaos: that difficult
feat, at life with purpose, to glean a bit of knowledge from losers: this place
he dwells, those immortal vibes, this spiderlike fire of volt-paws: to exist as
living, or to exist as dying, where friction exists claiming as monumental—this
voiceprint of flames, this twain excitement, our years to immortal spectrums:
that sin-sun vice, this relished sacrifice, our women ripped asunder.
They
give life, our confusing mothers, if bled too much would die.
