…stressed for islands, or dead to
feelings, while, emotions, nonetheless: this alien creature, this trenchant
wound, or that eldest child: our dreams for perfection, our galaxy nightmares,
or white//black distortions: those mobile cries, this ghostly heart, this feud
with differences: our strong concaves, this enclave of experiences, this
bear-cry: if but to liquor, or passionate wines, or more this curse where
reality must bend: this crafted person, this inner violin, or this concrete
crooked exterior: our pages scribbled, our essays leaking personality, this
professor as dared to die—this ache limping, this anklet chain, those cuffs
scrambling through brains: this push for mother, this elusive permanence, this
casket blinking at Jesus: as souls receive, to grieve its audience, while Love
becomes some sort of demon: at arks with friends, at years these thoughts,
while, presently, too aloof to reach: so more to false pleasantries, or
bull-crap converse, while angered his lips haven’t reached our butts: this
cigar screaming, this peddle-dungeon, or more at aches this treacherous mother:
to have for lights, this innocent respect, while underdogs go through hell:
this cold cabbage, this exploration, while perpetrators exact evidence through
losers: indeed, our bones, or riding as Jesus, to fret for seconds aggravated
through rage: this cut in aces, this realm of ghosts, but never so far as to
cut an adversary: this old existence, this touch with truth, to fear this
yelling mirror: to age as dying, or to forget those climaxes, at whims fleeing into
forced reality: our brains laughing, our fires coming to naught, where such was
so uplifted by new-beginnings….
I sense with Life, this film of portraits,
this mental photograph: as once a jewel, while harbingers were lurking, where
age became this torment: those wild ceilings, this reaching Jesus, this birth
as cut this island: our earth falling, our skies demented, those clouds
scribbling prose: as dead men, or women fleeing, as returning to graves: this
small curse, this adhesive glue, or this sick person disapproving of this life
we cherish: our broken concerns, this husband laughing, this child thinking for
what ifs: our bowels dripping, our guts dingy, our jasper celebrations: this
high for soldiers, this black ship for warriors, this man at crowds—to source
with violence, to shock a nation, or born for pure survival: to laugh with
Jesus, to hold this anger, to cross eyes feeling apathetic: this apophatic, or
this cataphatic, or truth to guts this silent maniac: where daughters are
apprehensive, while psychs war for mothers, despite such treacherous satantics:
our lives up for review, where others offer discourse, as if we pleaded for
their approval: to cuss and laugh, to praise and die, to resurrect looking at
something demented: as begging for peace, but trapped into wars, as one feels
chosen to outline their position: this moonlit womb, this jazzy angle, or
angular those lines screaming at midnight: this octopus mourning, this mother
protecting her child, this father feeling secure: our arms scratching, our
dinners at vomit, our guts failing acidity.
I answer callings, where creativity has
become suspect, while weirdoes behave as if I should care: this silent
insinuation, as if All are reduced to
daily dosages, or deaths to achieve something esoteric: this small creature,
this velvet treachery, as one selected to ape for goodness: our cursed brains,
our opinions for friends, or this life where money proves insecurities: this
cloud screaming, this fool laughing, as if it was perfect those infant years:
our mothers freebasing, our fathers pimping, and this radicalized judgment: as
if his guts, or dear to God his brains, to feel as appropriate this disgusting
ass disposition: as cut to destroy, if but a fragment—of anything that speaks
to alliances.
