I like certain panties; I relax in certain
women; I dance at chance a certain personality: this falling gate, this rising
fence, those boiled eggs: this inner mourning, this flippant sinning, those
abandoned blouses: as fueled and dying, peering at wining eyes, to feel
permanently infused: that strong, sexy gait, those geisha wits, this outer
clarinet: at chimpanzee instincts, or ape calmness, at that second where humans
blend with primates: that gutty woman, that charming daughter, those remorseful
mothers: this winter clash, as so good that year, if but to vomit out
redemption: our moving minds, this sinning psychologist, or better, this world
void of sin: adjusted and lying, or lying and adjusted, where morals bleed
nonsense: our souls laughing, our countenance stern, and this overseer at
shrine’s-desecration. I admire bras,
a bit childish, where women desire power: this cut in men, this lively curse,
as Love would die to please a strong character: this boat racing, this yacht
decimated, or our Titanic afloat a dream such romance: to disappear, to drift
with Jesus, or to ask concerning certain khakis: our macabre magnets, this
beating arc, or music this wavelength: as writing slowly, while craving cigars,
where three images probe my cerebral: that fair business fire, this sudden
wheel-wall, or this Jewish disaster: those seconds at death, this feeling with
humans, or crashed for sudden that universe: our broken livers, our dehydrated
guts, or our bones pressing through sinews: where God is casual, or God is
waiting, while unsaid culprit blasts his brains. I love fever, I die fever, I address
fever: this foolish soul, this strong vessel, this losing sound-cast: as souls
fretting, or hands drifting, or forgiveness with motives: this fast speaker,
those gesticulations, to wonder our calamities: if but to impress, while more
to rise, where scholars recognize other scholars: moreover, to sin, or drills
destroying, while at destruction flimsy as sore mosquitoes: this lantern
flickers, this woman digests, this diary is read before our audience: this
cringing soul, this dying woman, this inner alcoholic: those beige blemishes,
this mental tangerine, or those garden nectarines—as lives a dead-man, or this
sipping maniac, to lose everything his soul mended: this gut in grandma, this
feather in grandpa, or worlds perpetuating slavery: to giggle a sweet tooth,
those high heels, and that varicose vein: to sentence to deaths, to muscle to
breaths, as alive standing in kef: to worship Jesus, this loud feeling, where
God must respond!: as dependent upon velocity, or ravishing in cities, to sacrifice
laughing for feeling good: this inner professor, this mental psychiatrist, or
this beautifully dangerous psychologist: at grains giggling, at stress babbling,
or feeling this sort of way running home to our spouses…this Sia Wreck, this
Sia Ghost, this fuming catastrophe: those bubbling plums, this ravished
existence, or those violet scratches!
(I try to speak, failing horribly, at wonders about your voice: this
frigid world, this frigid soul, or years to sacrifices: as church-bound, this
testy discussion, those million pegs in tithes: if but our address, or but our
identity, to ruin something good with little to thoughts: this innocent death,
this glowing miracle, our mother’s footprints: as worshiping dramatics, or
blazing our carcasses, or framed in voiceprints: this lavish insanity, that
promising vessel, as years become dungeons!).
