It
becomes your soul, this gravitation, this inner compass: to ache as dripping,
this sweat as supernatural, this feeling by Remorse: our Saturday Musings, our
brains sauté’d, our colours playing make-believe: this pressure, to inform your
heart, with such modicum reach: It becomes madness, this generational curse, as
I churn upon Mother: this avid reader, this push towards glory, this agitated
Mother. I sense your heart, this
penchant dewdrop, this sudden outburst: as leaping forward, this fortress of
gold, this fossil buried in my lungs: that silver hearth, as God’s floor, to
arise as this immortal queen: this blood and brine, this soaked planisphere,
and those cloudy textures: as moody this summer, this iridescent artform, this
dulcet voice seraph: or this mental carnage, flooding arteries, to coil with
this slight approach: for life has become, this furnace of roses, this
reproachable heathen: this self as cringing, this self as dying, where this new
woman emerges. It becomes appetites,
this welkin sigh, and our sunset tears: these fragile smiles, those luxurious
daisies, or this sour and empty swan: as never to rightness, or ever to
jurisdictions, while captive a daughter hard for justice: our godhead brains,
our liquid soil, or this twilight shrapnel: where time in unfair, as kernels
are incorrigible, while fiddling with this sign of turmoil: this cypress
electrocution, this clockwork existence, this country of old souls—as livid
arcs, or explosive dynamite, to roam this land of pantomime expressions.
I
adore by credence, this remote ambition, this present exhaustion: as words fall
to heaviness, as ghosts explore emptiness, while swans pretend this life: this mental
triumph, while at serious wonders, to fulfill with time this immortal deed:
this creed by science, this art by forgiveness, or this allegiance to something
angry: our Aphrodite, our Women’s Wisdom, or our fertile and distrusting
ovaries: as needled in bones, to encounter our nightmares, this clasp upon
something dying: to shimmer and totter, to live with indignation, to have this
force fraught by illusions: as rejoicing our get-backs, this clarion of horns,
this summons to vindictiveness: this nether-land glitter, those strewing
shapes, this banquet of redeemed fathers: (as peeks a purpose, this tension
upon high, this absolute zero down below): if torn by parables, we stress our
guts, as churned this privy about knowledge: to get as dying, to inform as
livid, to retrieve your inheritance: this know-all soul, this person at much to
learn, while shivering from pedestal fevers: wherefore, this garb, as hung to
perish, where mother is quite proud.
It
becomes your needs, this glimmer of light, this embarrassed swan: for this is
justice, our egos passion’d, our guts pampered: this toilsome mirror, this
daily dying, if but to appease swans: this purpose of living, this cut in
wounds, this lesion bleeding its resistance: our primate agendas, our kingdoms
grieving, or this nonentity appeasing for dear life: where family smiles, to
sentence this death, while daughters feel a tad uneasy: this turquoise tether,
this place by Mars, this recurrent theme to haunt my existence: so more to
equality, as this thinking soul, where Irrationality purchases its last ticket:
for days grow longer, and songs grow deeper, while florid a vibrant curse: that
primal feeling, this dazzle with venom, this choice persistence with
isolation—as aches rightness, or flings as flung by contempt, while we must
examine our keels: this august mermaid, this resilient survivor, or such
numbing atmospheres—where words are but silence, as feelings remain ignored,
while death is eating gourmet: this undulation, this rigid piety, or this
lightsome butterfly—to sense with easiness, this joy in your heart, while so
many are purely envious: (our mauled heart-currents, our flannel pegs, and such
generational rhetoric).
