I
feel by ghosts, these tangible forces, this sullen whisper—those dreams
inverted, this passion explosive, or merry-go-fevers this windmill: as cut for
dead, our arteries screaming, our autopsy scratching divine causes: this
mountain air-clave, this picture war-grave, to exist for millennia inside of
photographs: those fond memories, those schizophrenics, or this beige horizon:
our women cleaving, our sisters weaving, while men are lost to wheezing: if but
by church, to initiate pure faith, while tugging for yanking and churning
corners: that Buddhist enterprise, or such tilling for hewing, our inner
parchment tonsure: this hair bleeding, this paper seething, our guts to golf
while fully asleep: as Arcanum Wisdom, afield our love, while pouting for
ruined an unrealized congestion…to abide by lies, as sickness our dark cries,
while fueled to perish looking at deaths: this mannequin dancer, those artsy
monograms, or France to arcs pillaging this gray fire: where mother would
seize, as alive in death, while our grandkids elope forbidding earth.
I
felt hydrants, this whisky ladybug, and those oils for incantation: our feeble
goodbyes, this miracle as spacey, this transparent inner unicorn: our hearts
speaking our resistance, our shadows making for love, our knees, knifes, and
knots—where Love is purple, as raining with loyalties, but cut for destined to
raise invisible children: at language through tongues, to order with Christ, as
an effusion pours into reckoned strangers: our blinded curse, this lifty leaf,
or lunchroom liquids—to cuss Our Jesus, while infused by much our granite, and
those quixotic trumpets: as torn for imploded, to pilfer our souls, at penchant
disenchantments that impose: those absent windows, those ruffled feathers, or
this love suffering from atrophy: our ruined muscles, for clinging to addictions,
or this beanbag sobriety: as feeling insanity, those internal remnants, or this
day-to-day tyranny: as mere men, this ephemeral exchange, where guts commit
forgery.
…my
heart is chiming, my soul is livid, and this psych is quite endearing: this
universal difference, this acclimated scientist, and those ruby red roses: unto
intuition, this woman a vibe, this world a curse: to invert said curse, to
chisel this daughter, to wage war with self: this heartstring blooming, this
wavelength looming, and our brains seated at admissions: those ecstasy spells,
this web through thoughts, to resist for a time but tugged suddenly: as not to
laugh, but more to feel, as we realize that some offer existence: this unveiled
veneer, this waxing trumpet, or this exospheric implosion—where condition
designs lights, as lights infuse long-range, insomuch, those mandolin
dirt-mites: but Love is good, for Love is committed, while infidelity ruins her
course of sanity: so life as soulprints, or essence as voiceprints, while guts
flee but timed in temperaments….
…oh
for sunlight, our indelible skycraft(s), our inflictions as mental mantras:
this anxiety state, or cinemas by ghosts, alive our inmost screams: those
costumes, decoded by nakedness, and those inrushing intensities: our necks
bloodshot, our panacea destroyed, but voltage to brains secures a dynasty:
where symbols dangle, and illumination colors, where thoughts aid this
Ghostlike texture: this pure believer, at wrestling concerns, to possess
certain experience without full Logic: this nebulous fusion, this paired
reality, or this symphonic motif: at language for decades, or at Love for
seasons, to finalize this chase in pure reality: as taboo fools, this certain
attraction, as another forfeits such majesty: that man gunning, as splendor
descends, or earth as temblor sensation: our embers churning, our sounds
thrumming, and life to Love fueled by deaths: this elfin Isis, this Victorian
Whimsical, or reality so close it ruptures….
