I Read, “Stranger”

I know for vipers, this incredible friend, this endless matrimony: our sanctioned cycles, our motor-mobility, this fragile swan so undertaken’d: this filming remorse, this course with silence, this vacant ape-war: as cursed for deaths, while breeding lives, to cut into flesh ten years that dungeon: our current horses, our present rabbits, those rabidly inflated eyes: our yogis watching, our daughters to births, albeit, this brain conscious before thoughts.  I sipped Jesus, I ate his intestines, I lost while grieving such winnings: this blanket exhaustion, this miracle mansion, or our thoughts pretending manhood: that lev afar, those bars screaming, this ruthless tactic: to dance while heinous, or cursed for goodness, while here it dreams, this vicious theologian: our rafts bleeding, our elephant-whales, or this gut feeling such destruction: our addict mothers, our damaged fathers, to rear with violence this silent invention: as ruined for passions, or damaged for fortune, thereto, this diary by Yahweh.  (I drift.)  I thought to pains, this adolescent, as so close he screams: this ironic love, this concerning ache, at membrance concerning this author’s father.  [I couldn’t love, this stranger of souls, hearing this venom by lies: our perfect mothers, this contradiction, for her actions spoke too insidious: this casual thought, while dormant by ages, until this milk spilt upon carpet: this velvet rug, this inner season, this reckless abandonment]: as mystics soaring, filled with trepidation, or this baffling awe: those remarkable ache-tears, this need for normality, while both parents are frenzied-wars: this gecko pianist, this drumming iguana, as time kisses unspoken dreams: our phobic hearts, this friend whispering, while we ignore this angry swan: those years to subtleties, [if but he puckered ass], if but he ignored sheer disgusts: this reckless person, as speaking in dungeons, while divorced from inherit attributes: this flailing system, this rapid distrust, while it felt for heaven to escape.  (I drift.)  It was tears ago, this robust countenance, this psychotic feature.  (I thought of insouciance, or this combined nature, to analyze that some clash by nature: this remote daughter, this deaf sentence, our screams combined that second inside monsters: our boxing wars, this fleet of chi-science, this ambitious cloud-essence: our broken watches, our churning moments, or this reality being raised by addicts: our deep emotions, this catering to souls, this feeling afforded this loss by reality: our guts hanging, our words as tender, our days as feeling voices: a daughter’s dream, a sun’s imagination, while this stranger was pushed for cliffs.  I radical that thought, tugging an earlobe, feeling perfection in reality: this perfect friend, this perfect mother, this perfect cactus: those rabid incisions, this fleet of tyrannies, this indebtedness purposed with intent).     }…I shift to differences, this immortal mystic, this fleeing into darkness: our amplified wilderness, our saga as incipience, our souls at coffee fifteen years into our futures: this traumatic peace-keeping, this indebted warfare, those plums seeming so sweet: our alibis graves, this poet as enemies, this song as fractured: but more to gods, and souls to goddesses, while soaring for captured desiring a flute: this inner walnut, this babbling fool, our arts to brains as sensing something imperfect{….     I love as dying, I cringe as wounded, I drive as geared this election: this crawling tortoise, this musical violin, this drumkit bleeding our realities: this fleece of hatred, this losing battle, this cut as delivered: to hear this psych, while pleading his understanding, where something quite dangerous has taken its course.  I drift with life, listening to grief-lyrics, pulled by this shadow: our archetypes whistling, this swan to passions, or more this swan to loyalties: as sought to ask, this blindness of eyes, (and never this induced guilt): for ours is pure, as dependent upon emotions, while tugged so young as never a child: that penguin laughing, our Japanese Frisbees, our memories fueled by a stranger’s resonance: so live as conquering, and die as resurrecting, this science pursued by bilking dreams.