I
think of momma, this delicate maniac, this cordial nightmare: this married
vacuum, this autumn in winter, this springy instrument: this class night
addict, this rapturous ghost, this every-woman: this cold twist, this heated
debate, this slamming into vertigo: this wheezing son, this asthmatic
grandmother, this smoky room: if but with angst, to utter forgiveness, to curl
into a knot: this flagrant gut, this fragrant mist, this musical monsoon: to
meet as younglings, our untold boundless secrets, this deathless jungle: this
inner leopard, those ridiculous spots, this chase afar this tiny zebra: our losing
pentacles, our losing monograms, this hatred for one hurting: this unfair
exchange, those passivity fathers, where needs demand a tighter noose: this
dying mother, this beautiful Lexus, or arms to guts this uncultivated creature:
our watery eyes, this kleptic death, or this keeping by composure: our wives to
mothers, this charm seeming invincible, to realize that hurt triumphs over
appropriate behaviors: our auspice revelations, this gutty tongue fest, or to
feel as living Jesus: where friends come with purpose, where deaths come with
privileges, to token as human beings: this mental mother, this similar
disposition, those missing Legos: this building fantasia, this sign and symbol,
this sweltering ignition: our bloated guts, our perfect insanities, or better,
this woman applauding her riddles: to feud with levity, this admiration for
brevity, or more, this woman our texture this tinge of mother: those violent
retreats, those violent arguments, this deep betrayal—to forfeit love, as
longing for anything, where gramps makes waves to defend his daughter.
I
love mother, this filthy game, this pain with jewels: this exotic
rollercoaster, this internal psychiatrist, this longing mental maze: this
psychology, this theosophy, this metaphysical—as torn towards Ghosts, this door
moving, this restroom laughing: if but insanity, as cursed with vision, while
preaching to this deafened self: our scars babbling, our Babylon mimics, this
tale so close to this Grecian prostitute: those mountains, this fest with
essence, this bleeding goddess: this rotation, this gut whining, this moan
grinning: our reckless habits, this feud with Bunnies, this honor for
graduates: indeed, too subtle for membrance, too at doctoral(s) to laugh, and
too treacherous for classification: those clouded visions, this insidious
mistake, this scar too indebted to treachery—if but to fly, to cleanse this
curse, where real souls feel filthy as hell: this nasty mud-print, at hells to
destroy, to expect this standing ovation: this gut-war, this fabulous daughter,
this rarity as livid this curse: this blackened moon, this red-blood sun, this
instantaneous upsurge—to nut his brains, accused for hating, while treachery is
giving scars. I must retreat, this
mother his grains, this telepathic dead mother!
So
manicured those faces, so casual our thunder, at trophies feeling cursed: this
statuesque penchant, this beautiful mother, this horror from hell: this
inverted disappointment, this class of emeralds, this betrayal as giving life:
if but disposition, if but genetics, if but thought dependent upon these
things: this radiant timbal, [not faithful to self], and not faithful to
others—but dying for closure, and dying for daughters, as teaching as was
taught: this non-workable game, this infinite sorrow, this gift disguising its
jealousies.
We
adore mother, we shun father, we laugh about treacherous deeds: we abort life,
we eat gourmet, we tend to outlandish feelings: in truth, we marry mother, our
opposites attract, while framing closure: this father we knew, this father we
married, this repeated mother!
