I
buzz gently, this accursed habit, sensing our similarities: this casual gin,
this dry martini, this olive with grapes: our delicacies, our vinyl bars, our
oaken trestles: this spinning chair, those wild glances, this uninhibited
sensation: our fatal mistakes, this palm to Jesus, this tale to Satan: if but
this leaf, afloat through time, to realize this unyielding battle: our inner Garnier,
our outer Neutrogena, if but this slight refusal: where mother cried, those
years to deaths, this particular indecency: those fish leaping, those animals
yawning, that decrepit cheetah: if but this life, if but this gain, our
tortures rented for treasons. I buzz
gently, as unidentified, but courted in plain view: this tinged veneer, those
steady eyes, this glossy horizon: our achy passions, our churning hearts, our
internal tongues: acquitted for nonsense, but scheduled for sentencing, while
afforded these rites by ecstasy: those agouti membranes, this eye-to-eye fever,
or this terrific crush: as men dying legacies, while fraught by fantasies, to
echo with violence this distant reception: this shrew-like contagion, this
chipmunk war-fest, this running for receiving while cursed with existence: our
theology fires, our psychology appraisals, and this failed escape—where father
dreams, as living corruption, to feel with lights this lethal horizon: as
feigned contempt, this man roaming geckos, or this soul roaming valleys: our
unpunctual deaths, this eating reality, alas, our fruits with vegetables. I buzz softly, staring at sunset dunes,
laughing at various senses: this deep levity, this facetious nature, or rather,
this bishop pushing her affairs: indeed, to riddles, where knowledge is sought
after, while daughters ride rollercoasters: this woodland field, this
incantation, this ocean of rhinestones: if but to pass-out, or but to buzz
gently, or but this steep infatuation: our words as torpedoes, our ethos rising, our logos becoming intrusive: this man to vehicles, this sky filled
with mirror-grass, as souls harness for abandoning calamities: our dice with
vodka, our seven as hard won, or better, this particular magic surrounding
certain souls: as, therefore, this romantic curse, and our graves at becoming
gelada baboons: this woman watching, as sensing this human, to soften an
earlier position: where minds are connected, our linchpins linked, this sheer
responsibility. I buzz softly, peering
at silver ants, while pausing to take a sip: this fifteen proof, this half this
bottle, this daiquiri awaiting my arrival: as offending some, but hell to
nonsense, where some are made for this rivalry: at sheer disappointment, to
place such faith—in one that has never been trained: this web she lied, this
cry she told, this hellish psych peering into honesties: as livid souls,
warring against social hunters, to ask for more evidence: this casual
dismissal, this casual treatise, or more, this casual befriending: that
mirrored reflection, facing pure objectivity, to realize we perish helping
others as ourselves: indeed, to riddles, indeed, to flooring righteousness, to
find with life this fair exchange: this death for wisdom, that death for
insights, or this death for pure epiphanies: as using that language, but
retreating from wars, for I realize this certain lacking, herein: our poisoned
daisies, our mythical tulips, or this child asking many questions: our hearts as
ruined, that union as kindled, where fair knowledge remains this distant
fussiness: as, hereupon, this academic fury, this furious damage, this Atlantic
musical: our buttermilk veins, our butterfly shames, or this butter-sky
night-reign—as Love announces, with teary conviction, this passion as death’s
warning: this husband at charms, this field as perfect, this child planting
coconuts. I buzz gently, a man to his
domain—in steep tension with mania: this force as decoded, if but experienced,
while taking at that first spin: this energized insect, this iconic giant, this
tent of mongooses: or dumpy goose bumps, this shifting sequence, and unusual
behavior: to condemn forever, for people never master—those inner demons: and
people never change, not ever to a sin, {this volume of shaking our
sensibilities}.
