We
need updates, at casual gates, feeling for flying—this inner leisure, this
scope to brains, this feudal earthquake—as seaquake dynamite, as friends dying,
as pallbearer agonies: that gram of weed, that line of heroine, this down south
abrasion—as cursed a dream, to reside our spaces, where racism becomes second
emotions. I feel mystic, at yogis with
illness, at psychological aggressiveness: those bones by sinews, this Alaska
freezer, this mid-ocean sulfur—as jut a scream, this radical porcupine, our
essence imbued by raccoons: indeed, a cry, laughing for falling, our parents to
dominoes, [our mothers cooking noodles]: if but to arise, at love this swan, at
stark inventions: to see these eyes, as cries our ratios, this winter’s
allegories. With hells to endure, this
existential reality, at sixty-five days to darkness: our frozen motions, our
frozen rivers, this ice-beige tundra: as men frigid, accusing roses, those
eight months passed hibernation: that black bear, those snowflake beavers, this
woman analyzing our beings—as crashed
a whale, sailing into rituals, at blasted cadence feeling ecstasies: our
chainsaw’d oceans, our jasper tendencies, this rosy-red kiss—at bliss with
friction, at tears with realities, at graves burning candles: that inner lake,
as pouring into existence, this fretted countenance: to see but brains, this
fetid disposition, at twelve hours to fertility: this woman laughing, this man
gunning, our hearts but moments to elation: whereto, erected tripods, this
ice-shore Cross, this county of simplistic thoughts: to suffer anguish, as pure
our warm-wars, as dippers through Americas.
Slow By Pace
I
have Us, while cold to explore Us, for our tears were bred inside
trees: this otter at reveries, this snail at remembrance, our classical science
speaking sparsely: this inner orange, this outer purple, while steep in
dungeons this conference with psychs: our tables bleeding, this woman
demanding, our brains as shifts through frustrations: this ratio dust, this
mental gut-phone, our seconds to calm fajitas.
I loved a dream, as associated with addictions, laughing for soaring
this false phantasm: as by selection, this shoebill gaze, at strangers pursued
by attractions: (as must to investigate, this mechanism of senses, to discover
innocence by cadent Frisbees): our reckless preludes, our prima donnas, our
prompts to principles unsold: this feathery quartet, this quivering mansion,
our quintet regrets: as loved this life, so close your horns, our altars
fraught with bloodshed. I run by
sceneries, lasting through cinemas, abased for low fermenting grapes: this
shearing ecstasy, this mystic wildness, this rigger atrocity: wherewith, this
shorn attraction, this inner axe, this shiver as confirmation.
Some
Smirnoff Ice, some liquid dreams, some R&B—this fabric essence, this lovely
acacia, this penchant suffering: at moons dying, at suns laughing, this miracle
of words: to dig with succession, to crave fiery silvers, that man to twilights
(that woman to deaths, this feeling as if all has arrived): our angry passions,
our glorious women, as one said, “You’ll never perish”: if but ruined, abrasive
with mood-swings, at disco this imaginative swan: to want with decencies, this
lavish flower, as cut to hectic silence: this mother’s symphony, this inner
keystone, this million dollar purse: where father glanced, as broken this
levity, reaching through pockets to purchase that purse. I saw apparitions, this manic spell, at cuts
speaking through tongues: our Jhene Aiko’s, our Trixie liquor, our Hanna
Reid’s—if but to whisper, Adele, to enchant Beyoncè, laughing for mourning our
gray heavens: this man seething, as to wither during autumn, our tremulous
disasters: for brains shift, as diamonds implode, where mother was gentle this
curse.
