I
spas out, listening to soul-skies, as blenders mutilate our guts: this
explosive canon, this apostolic tradition, this leaking cross: as purposed this
feeling, to presume justice, where reality has ousted motives: this fair
conversation, our egress dripping hurt, our ingress as subtle as make-believe:
this furious sweat, those sensational sunbeams, this ironic satire—if but to
dream, our anti-women, our female misogynists, our mirrors stabbing our guts:
if but to scream, our flesh to nails, or this trickle of fluids: our livers
whining, our monkeys rabid, as to gnaw through bone: (this fool running, this
testimony as crooked, this woman as frustrated: where words are feudal, or
tales are futile, while fleeing this vineyard of fruits: our darkest hours,
this daughter to music, this fair hatred vying with angers: this sleeve
babbling, this fleece screaming, or told to tales this invincible resilience: as
kissed a lion, this song by Daniel, our galloping mouths)…our social Da Vinci,
our dying Picasso, our immortal Rembrandt—as Monet revs, where Raphael dreams,
as sentenced to prisons this Pollock panting!
I
pinch liquor, at current a river, while pondering this distinctive cloud: this
feeling with vinegar, this peach with acid, this plume with disabilities: as
cries an ache, to ponder this woman, to want with patience those opportunities:
as fully fledged fools, or fallin angels, or angelic agendas: this wonderful
soul, while cringing our exits, where love would have sustained discontents:
this mission galloping, this horse out of breath, this rider pushing unto said
horse collapses: if but to imagine, this falling hair, this dread as testimony:
those ruby eyes, those aster eyes, those acrylic eyes: if but to surpass our
Id, where egos collide, to fair upon love our superegos: this Freudian
massacre, this Jungian nightmare, this Warhol can of soup: as souls at skies, or sullen afloat surreality, while
sanction abuses solidity: this frantic passion, this euphoric perfume, this
mystic Burberry gown: if but to achieve, as listed a candidate, our flex with
violently pure passion.
...we
flower intentionality, we rescue authenticity, if but this Shakur
determination: (to speak with lights, this woman as desired, this fortune as
explored: our casual exploits, our driven lagoons, this fair brook as somewhat
too loyal): where mothers wander, while fathers seem content, where mystics
push passed buttons: our euphoric bruises, our spacial arteries, our
dreamy-eyed affectations: as Plato ponders, or Aristotle concludes, while
Descartes bleeds more ink: our frustrated horizon, while sick by begonias,
where time has studied this exalted hurdle: our cursed passions, our Kant
morality, our Socrates’ ethics, or better, this insistence where Hume fetches a
fit: to die so young, this plague to Nietzsche, while pondering this inclusive Confession: our Russell adversaries, our
positivists’ slants, where love has recruited its foolishness: as Hughes
depicts color, or colorless necessities, our names carved by Nikki energies: (our
craving daylights, our ferns growing betwixt concretes): this crack in
pavements, this lost feeling of admiration, to come with time ignoring blatant
disruption…{to curse with life, this animating curse, [our studio museums],
this pressure tethered to impacts: this woman’s fire, this passionate
heart-core, this robust discontinuing}—where justice becomes this vehicle,
while conflict becomes this relief, where sexes behave in such a way to
contradict those conversations: this pure sickness, a man hating his mother,
but, nonetheless, searching for said mother: this chromatic addict, this porous
infection, while our eyes scream for mother those climaxes: this weathered
gallery, this tried insistence, this furious castle: our whites as blacks, our
blacks as whites, or more, our women as depicting our mother’s characteristics:
this loud soul, this demented soul, this glorious addiction!
