…so
much entangles, this man by dreams, this wrestling shadow: those blackdamp(s),
this inner smaze, this ring of smoke—this beaming dragon, this mental
sea-monster, this ironic joy—as bundled with feelings, or feeling semi-flat,
this natural disposition: as days fly, our souls bubbling, at that sudden burst
of mind-waves: this luxurious beta-cave, such flatness dissipating, such arms
sprouting wings: to realize this shift, this blanket of knots, this berry of
intimacies: our crying antlers, our reasoned antennas, our angling
knowledge-base: this reckless calmness, this throwing of one’s soul, or those
wafers with wine. Its casual delights,
or rumbling intestines, or acidic reflex: our planes while seated, our
stillness with moving, our motion contemplating concrete: this abstract world,
as thought his belly, where asphalt rarely crosses our antennas: this pillar by
science, this rushing physics, this tenable metaphysic: those books by facts,
our earthly examinations, or this soul concentrated on spirits: those stinging
eyes, that glossy glaze, this angular reception: as souls challenge, this vest
by existence, our guts responding to stimuli. I weep for wisdom, this fair
creature, this robust nightmare: this protector, this tester, this immutable
creature: as minds to skylarks, or brains to mechanic scanning(s), our nights
by disappearance: again, alive with uneasiness, to locate passions, to embark
upon this voiceless journey: our months as monks, our seasons by seduction, our
evenings to psalms: this weekly undergoing, this slight ache, this slight
frustration: to feel irk rising, while to study those tentacles, while proud to
have pushed it downwards: our bellies laughing, our intellects searching, or
our instincts realizing havoc’s approach: this field of grapes, that nursery of
feelings, whereat, those sentimental notions. It looks for sameness, these kangaroo
agendas, this nonchalant aggressiveness: those suspicious cries, this languid
voice, this shameless disagreement: our woes to skies, our dreams to
stitching(s), our seams slowly unthreaded—this need for attention, if but for
balance, chased for floored our mirror ghosts.
