Born to Bronze

I sipped a screwdriver; I puffed a flathead; while nursing bolts and screws: this living monastery; this walking zombie; this metaphorical lotus—as dying legends, to master realities, by tender this mercy: to see us dancing, this fuel for thoughts, while kings pay tribute: this conquered city, this warring color, while abused by personal beliefs: those flatirons, those curly locks, those rosy dimples: wherewith, that northern charm, our moving intestines, our blatant cries: ignored by men, or capitalized by men, or dreams screaming for freedom: those raging instruments, this blaring guitar, where Love painted orange a skirt in Arabic: this chase for passion, this vision for dominance, or alienated for wisdom: as set apart, or ruined early, if but this trenchant intuition: thereto, this sullen brain, this sullen heart, this feel-good adrenaline: if but to perish, if but by rubies, if but this last mistake: our minds gleeful, our eyes watering, our knees to screaming rugs.

…we bent nails, tugged and abandoned, our limbs carried away: those centipede feelings that poison grass emotion, or those stingray instincts: while screaming this lie, this whole universe, those pragmatic controversies: to remote this agony, to kneel for justice, to sweat abandoned to fire: this road afar,  this deep impasse, or this life-altering confrontation: to realize morals, to chance our ethics, to behave with ought while suffocating softly: our selfish friends, as watching deaths, but comfortable while in their favor….

…our skin laughs, while causing harms, where surfaces appease our insecurities: our psychic scissors, sawing into paper-thin emotion, if but to un-stir webs: our passions mounting, if but to frolic, if but to grin—through such anguish, through metaphysical studies, or knowledge at random our inner ransoms—to scrape fiction, looking professional, if but this inner island—that rabid secret, those rabid cries, this field running affected with rabies: our cotton brains, our mahogany pleasures, or this established concern for Kerry: and never by sights, and never by consideration, or even a gallant mistake: our breaking news, this morning’s travesty, or deliverance through TBN: while finding Jesus, or guzzling aphrodisiacs, or churning a conservative grin: that mad spoon, or that crazed vein, or cartilage too soft to sneeze: this born winner, this losing sacrifice, if but upon high to myriad gods….

…such haven meadows, to discover mirrors, to indulge in glitter: that pond face, this diving for self, this shallow demonstration: this sinful shrine, this mental glimpse, or a bit startled at wee hours: those thunderclaps, this ache cloud, or winds roaming our interior: such dreamy content, such impish apologies, or contemporaries desperate to uproot science: this perplexing jaunt, this fencing frenzy, at blazing bosoms: presumed as Truth, to imagine this drive, or murderous eyes: this thin composure, this surface authoritarian, or worse, this social oligarchy—as men raging, if but for permanence, to imagine one in debates: those sky-wings, this under-earth sulfur, or brains sensing something extra: those sound thoughts, as one trespasses, or sudden a visitor during meditation: those screaming winds, this fueled legacy, or cries for Love as Love dies: our held palms, this curious gazelle, or that reborn adolescent: our daybreak slumber, or years to seeking, as but to find something unique: our churning arcs, our drumbeat souls, where Love apologizes for seeking Africa: those few sins, that life haunted, or feelings that rebel….