…look
at her eyes, this born travesty, this cut to neurons—this blood war, this vein
curse, those ribbons at such an early age: this elasticity, this fatal grip,
this nine year old blazing: those blue petals, that fair flesh, those rubric
eyes—as dead with justice, peering at father’s gavel, to behave as but a
gentleman: this Matthew Rook, this seething reality, this course as bleeding
professors: this miracle mile, where mother was raped, where officials blamed
our victims: our jarring concerns, our burgundy money, this bank filled with
deceptions: as kamikazes, screaming at demons, but favored with sin: this blush
dripping, this woman smiling, as behaviors seemed mechanical: to leave perfection,
chasing this shot, or this botanical island: those red blades, this grassy
living room, this plant for oxygen: this leather footstool, this satanic beige
chair, or those ravished bottles crinkling: if but to perish, tasting kosher
philosophies, at markets owned by Jews—this furious planet, our lost children,
this police officer dining at candles: this den of lioness, this arena of
apostles, this camp of hazardous gas: as daughter flourished, this inner jail,
to announce so late in development: our black carpets, this sipping dynasty,
this plush majesty: those feelings for power, this power for rigidness, our
psychiatrists stripping Reason: our Super Egos, if but by
crucifixes, to lay before our inner tribunal: where mother passions, as granny
laughs, while gramps pursues that irregular gut: our mental blouses, this dying
concern, to realize—We are nothing more
than habits: those trained diamonds, this sightly mirror, or more at deaths,
this unforgiving sensation: to want by normality, while consensus bleaches
trestles, to appear a weed in a vase: this troubled concern, this mother’s
kiss, this woman’s trespass: our late rent, our out-fused lights, or more, this
meal consisting of noodles and sauce: those curvaceous blind-posts, this
blatant stop-sign, or this ambiguous orange garden: if but to love, where
scientist frown, where fawning becomes rapacious reproach…. I’m lost, Love; this audience pitching
acorns, this man a gut too insensitive: this film replaying, this image dying
afar, these worlds habitual forecasts: our First Love, this adverse curse, this
miracle upon jaded wings: this too deep interaction, this feeling meaning so
little, while Love adventures as playing souls: those jasper dice, this jasmine
mile, our saffron ambitions: to see for Love, this extra- resentment, to push
passed this riving inconsistency: that split in frontal lobes, this man at
edges, those irrational seconds: this denim queen, this evening king, or those
night owls: to sip sweet gin, or radical vodka, at arm’s length this amazing
dream: our years at signs, our gusts at carrying—this pregnant rapture: this
pain by dungeons, this pilgrim-blind catastrophe, this woman searching but too
suspicious: at deep concerns, wrangling with Jesus, while laughing at pure
hypocrisy: our Australian Rites, our Danish Concerns, at thoughts while a bit
too wild: this daughter’s haven, this sister’s affection, this mother’s den—as
men dying, where men must be men, while death has Wisdom’s Appeal: this inner
primate, this blatant shoebill, this soul as undercurrents: this quixotic
abuse, this open toe, or more, this woman feeling reused: our cavities singing,
our lungs restricted, this curse becoming morbid: as heinous feelings, at
heinous negotiations, while inverted a notch too close to tender blues. (…we laugh to outwit pain, while clutching
this avalanche, while seeping into rivers: this tragic Love, this tragic carnival,
this tragic smile: if but this gnat, as gnawing at conventions, to love afar as
he benefits: this want for esoteric, this hard won disciple, this female
apostle: our Thecla’s, this inner picture, this outer temptation: this woman
named, Debra, this contemporary named, Huldah, or this mental voyage upon our First
Queen: at damsel brains, at sheer Rihanna’s , or more, at sheer perfection:
this crane to hearts, this welt to souls, this blood blue purple: where Love
participates, at this castle ordeal, our rugs resenting footprints: as wrestled
eyes, trespassing ballet, while singing Sia’s Song…).
