Saturday, August 4, 2018

Dear Lamborghini (Swan Bats)


…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…. 

Empty Space

    I’ve been in this space before—it seems natural, the affection of energies. Such interwoven moods, a series of underpinnings. A differen...