…we felt for sails, Love, this terrific
curse, this awesome melancholia: as growing souls, felt by pressures, laughing
loudness and lithic: those heavy responses, this tremendous anger, or years to
something holding us captive: such gray violets, or peach intestines,
thitherto, this rapturous arc—as gutted with pride, to fall with helium, where
emotion is navigating: those petty reasons, those petit disgusts, where a
daughter forces father to perform: this inherited habit, or, moreover, this
life of absorption, where geese are falling prostrate: our itchy eyes, our
radio ears, thus, this ability to touch with accuracy: if but to perish, our
bare feet to grapes, where souls are stained by anguish: or maybe with lights,
to resist imperfection, while surrounded by souls that fail our tests….
I laugh at nonsense, perturbed by realities,
and fleeing for dear existence: this ponytail moon, this leaping sunshine,
those banished leopards: our guts dripping, our hearts to warm sulfur, and
bowels gearing for warfare: this black insistence, this trail by years, or
blood-shots dipping into frenzies: this alligator flying, this non-terrestrial
glint, or hours to perfecting something cultic: this inlet daughter, this
miracle Love, at terrors for losing while disliking mother: this curse in men,
this force in women, plus, this exotic mystic currency: as taught for ruined,
at therapy learning to feel sea-plights, while Love agonizes concerning a
certain disposition: this moving fret, this deep anxiety, or this mute
retaliation: as flippant with words, to offcourse souls, while grieving this instance
in literary(ies): those fleeing camels, this rabid horse, or simplistically
lit, I Love Us.
…you have died so soon, and you have lived
about gloom, and your inheritance becomes richness: this golden grandfather,
this unmentioned grandmother, or this fabulous complex soul called, Mother: this steep marigold, this
begonia at weddings, or this glacier becoming warmth for daughters: at
territorial enclaves, felt for steady sipping Millers, while cut for devastated
forgiving father: this silent man, this welcomed machine, or those disenchanted
permanence*s: where lights are cyan, or beige-purple, where Glenn became this
sore loser: but hearts to brains, this tale about our ages, where similar
happenstance occurred his waves: as easy to relinquish, this gift by gods,
while snug a beat with hearts at pillows….
I adore your eyes, I pride your soul, and,
hitherto, I have prayed your Ghost: this fire at dawn, this fever at night, or
this freshwater at sunrise: this electric swan, this electric mystic, or this
confused poodle scared this trek of valleys: if but to die, as lived honesties,
while presently frustration is gunning: those deep secrets, to maintain
composure, while typing our existence: that mean serpent, those droppings afore
doorposts, while Love agonizes claiming affections: at rich exposure, as too
much to escape, where normality is no-longer an option.
…we melt wax, we pontificate, but nothing
is better than correlations: this axiom in blood, this posit in sand, or
epistemic lights that prove perfected argumentation: this kleptic heart-core,
this brief disappearance, as more for deliberation: at scales leaking, but
found a solid weight, where Love massages an inner valve: this gutted miracle,
this daughter for compassion, while father feels a bit distressed: those taupe
eyes, those horizon eyes, those eyes changing colors: as father’s semen, and
mother’s child, while it would feel good to touch eyebrows: this melodic
pressure, this melic yogi, or this Prince a bit outdated: where Love is unsaid,
this perceived curse, while mystics pray for clarities: at Catholic Novellas,
or Mystified Panic, while desperate to redeem this historical repeat….
