I
feel art, I die Love, I seam in occurrence this lie…our courage to brains, our
psychs to brains, and this mirrored stranger—as scared to fall, this ground so
close, this mental footprint—as dead souls, at daughters for foliage, and good
with liquor: to test Kerry, to arrive at Nichole, where Holms is bleeding: this
cut ruined, this pus dripping, our curse so at love—this brain-crypt, this kiln
leaking, our harvest at God’s roots: as devastated chaos, this welkin swan,
this furious deliverer: to yell at Jesus, while trekking cosmopolitan angst, to
course through vices—this fool on wings, this Ghost at screams, or this woman
shying about psychotic features: to bleed insanity, this Lil Wayne catastrophe,
this daughter stretched for elastic: to craft with deaths, to knit with Yahweh,
or at currencies with Satan: our million bones, our trillion game-points, this
zillion dollar whet sensation: to laugh through traffic, this private shelf,
where insanity becomes our rules: if but to perish, lying for good feelings,
this black swan imagination.
I
loved by sights, to meet this brain, as accustomed to igniting fire: this inner
grit, this bank-teller, this carpet snow-fest: where mother laughs, as gutted
by existence, to crawl only for Jesus: our ghetto waves, our tragic slaves,
this touch with white majesty: as torn for thrashing, or thrashing for torn, to
wonder about our ladies fantasies: this rule engrained, this pool for shame,
this mechanical island: at kitchens beaming, this internal ex, this feral,
prideful, dramatic, and anxious Lopez: where marbles repent, where Glenn
repents, where death cops a deal: to drift through darkness, laughing with
mystics, seasoned by John: this inner Logos, this tragic pathos, this
incredible ethos—to gut for ruined, to bones with sawdust, or at pills feeling
quite remarkable: this man she thought, to meet this ghost, to hate for at love
cleaving our cliffs: while angry with passion, to seduce more passion, where
Love felt screwed by apostles: this winter Thecla, this inner Teresa, or this
wretched, brilliant, receptive Kleptomaniac.
I
heard Pac, I slowed our transmission, I felt abused: this woman dying, this man
crying, our bowels bleeding our demons: this inner Smith, this summer Brimhall,
this ruining through forests: at Trethewey grinding, our local travels, this
cat walk: to bleed Jesus, to die mid-afternoon, to ponder this gray swan: our
mothers feeling good, to perish a sudden feeling, for memories become internal
voices: this rebuked human, this raging vine, to fig a grit at tears laughing:
this red shovel, this bubbly cry, to wine with perfection: our psychs smiling,
if but to feel life, while treading this existential: this mother with pains,
this sinner with child, or this winner feeling quite exceptional: where Angie kills
angst, as Maggie tills treasures, while a cut above both have pure convergence:
such treacherous deeds, such treacherous inversion, where activities thrust our
trenchant arcs: this man with deaths, this taste of breath, or this
illness-scarred cognac: to ask for Love, this trebled beat, this white
noise—where agony lives, as aborted to rage, where attitudes affect a
generation: at friction, Love, or zealot highs, abused by this essence called,
Life.
I
and we, Love, to know this secret, to perish this cry, to envelope our mystics:
this prehistoric wraith, this face at green oases, or this voice penchant with
times: our wistful heart-airs, this station at midnight, or this late afternoon
mirage: to fear this hearth, this freezing furnace, this brilliant endeavor: at
liquor laughing, at internals cringing, while his conscience is not condemned:
those lilies smiling, our music growling limbs, or earth to science this
travesty: where Love is jasper, of teal green, or perfected as something
reaching forward.
