…so
precious at agonies, damn near crucified, and damn near elated: this suffering
shadow, this Jungian Web, this caricature plaguing society: at grains with
mystics, at honor with yogis, if but ruined sanctified by guts: this winter
blue, this summer red, this burgundy windowpane: to love this swan, as aching
this mother, our truest battles: as gramps laughs, for feeling with goodness,
while granny smirks kissing this umbrella: our pure afflatus, our next by
kinship, or brothers to planets to visit Jesus.
I differ from souls, this crazy, composed loser, where Love becomes
jasper, this curse as seething, while husbands glean this sense before
calamities: our subtle violins, this harpoon harp, this casual death wish: if
but this climax, those brilliant lights, our months to worshiping mere women:
those padlocks, this invisible knife, as it yanks for corroding flesh—those
musicals blazing, this inner Mozart, or this baby those goo-goo smiles: as
cultic advice, this grassy horizon, this fire lightning—or thunder be good,
while hell becomes lavish, to enjoy as guts cleave to something stable: that
breaking roof, this broken vase, this senseless granny clock: to plant a
teapot, laughing at speculation, while hearts enjoy those wild posits: this
precious fool, this precious belief, those precious concerns: while searching
autonomies, racing through tactics, to find with pain this revving mystic:
those bones to grit, this grit to cherish, or more, this passion exploding with
indecency: that dialogue, this young self, as a woman convinced by pure
aristocrats: that debonair glance, those cuffs speaking billions, this feud as
pure friction: our midnight oak, this inner controversy, this precious, burning
arc: to episode life, this pure invasion, this repeated necklace: to choke for
ruins, to grip for dying, to come to grips this German Queen: indeed, against
doctrine, indeed, against humanity, and indeed, this man dying those European
gems. I leaflet life, to imagine Smith,
while cut a taste to maintain his space: our Jericho inventions, this bleeding
fiber, this thread as reaching Syracuse: those goddess infections, this
brilliant configuration, our big bodied women loving as succeeding—this logic
in jars, this stimulus as deceased, if but that second to witness this
frolicking psychopath; as, moreover, this elixir, or this mixed breed, or those
reflexive actions: as moist as fallen skies, as resilient as falling cries, to
imagine beyond this station called by sanity: this raging axis, this linguistic
massacre, or professors ignoring this wellic disaster: at raw calligraphy, this
marquise emerald, those depicted eye dreams: to cuss with violence, sipping red
moons, where mother laughs at tasting our guts: this father pendulum, this
psych’s infestation, or this sculpture redeemed as human: those phones to
brains, this phone to guts, this telepathic ability: if but concentration, to
feel that frantic thump, where most take pain for granted: this love by wolves,
this fabric by hyenas, as goodness performs before its entourage: this
childhood fable, this adorable, voluptuous, psychotic: this penchant whetstone,
this skinny dream, or this monster claiming our amazons: as ember symbols, or
heart-ringed catastrophes, where passion rolled a cigarette: our taboo
textures, our picturesque wounds, if but this yogi ten deaths prior—as insanity
wings, those daughters to fantasies, to sense that father would carve a falcon:
our brains to Yahweh, our guts to Ghosts, our dreams to one last chance to
confess—as steep cobwebs, by trapdoor spiders, if but this hydrant opus: this
musical orchestra, this infusion symphony, or this radicalized first departure:
our guts hanging, our souls cleaving, this myriad palladium of gods: those
whispers bleeding, this feeling draining, this man so enthralled but ten
minutes this day: those mnemonic tinges, this textology, our fanes obsessed by
sexology: if but our growth, to want for missions, to embrace at premature
hoses: our possessed cadence, this mystic mourn, such charity for seconds
considered pure: this panting breath, this sore losing, this winning as
confounded: to know with life, this possession as torn, where losers walk
forward.
