I sip and dive, I passion survival, I feel
with patience: this running fire, this cave ghost, or bone to marrow as rearranged:
this gut flipping, those children naïve, or pigeons to ponds feeding upon
seeds: this dead man, those remote feelings, as emotion streams into giants:
those cavelike expressions, this woman upon heroine, or days to extracting
realities: if but to die, peering at justice, while torn by insanity: to plead
for peace, or ravish glass-work, while meter-checkers explore each sentence: to
act with boldness, to flee this mission, where arts have invaded this
castle. I love as sickly, to dine as
wickedness, where seclusion becomes pure excitement: this man to crushes, those
fabulous skin-tones, those remarkable suggestions: as lively birth-givers, to
have that experience, where aftermath is fraught by concerns: this selfish
person, this bloated wind, or tales to arcs concerning other interests: our
Maybelline Wombs, our electric pianos, or flutes to moons spacing over petite
damsels: those reckless hellos, this intonated curse, or tears to majesty his
truest beliefs: as women writhe, or trip a sherm-leaf, while ingesting this
ape-war: our cuts to Jesus, our wounds to Satan, or mixed for ruined this
tender crowd: those wretched fumes, as wafting through sentiments, attempting
that first kiss: or hell to God, this perfect death, while cut for illness
running into perches: this woman sitting, as rubbing her chin, to exhaust a
feeling exploding into Jesus: this rune affection, our purported honesties,
while aches to crosses this deception.
I cross planets, at love with fires, to
hit a tender emotion: where sleepiness concerns art and deadliness concerns
liquor and indifference concerns Love: this miracle diamond, this feuding
delight, while cursed for structured peering at sheer insanity: that person
chancing, if but this elation, to mimic something requiring firsthand
encounters: such book insistence, where hell is gravel, while a poor soul
endures a psych’s fantasy: if but to perish, as but to flamboyance, while
destroyed for essence those new laws: our women laughing, as vicious through
hells, to call upon spades: this heart-game, those clubs in purple, this field
in grays: our lavish lights, this deep womb, or tales by souls too afraid to
feel: our agitated witnesses, this flaming color, or this incredible liar—as
men seeking (refuge), to give but too much, where existence calls for a dirge
of honesty: if but to die, while thrust into traffic, as one facing her first
day at survival.
I banshee, Love—peering at brown eyes, but
afraid of something common: those inner sirens, this social Viagra, or
musicality at a man’s temples: this wild woman, this grit in color, or those
chains remotely at brain cores: if but to live, as sentenced to deaths, where
Love pleads this solemn lie: where men acquiesce, if but that concrete feeling,
where contradiction appeals to lonely deaths: our nonbelievers, our curious sequences,
while ignoring our deceitful eyes: those bulbous gems, this belief in
childhood, while cursed enough to drag through existence: those fiery delights, this moonlight damsel,
or tales to souls searching for one to believe in.
(We get close to Love, realizing Love, and
alive to Life investigating Love: this sheer secret, this mis-approved Light,
our souls enrapt’d in dynamite: our agonies in velvet, our jasper delights, or
wine with cheese as a delicate enchantment: those remote emotions, this
involved feeling, where Love could do less harm: that essence as explosives,
our brains as inclusive, where intuition believes appropriateness: this wild
passion, our torn enchantments, while running through garden patches: this
fleeing flower, this fantastic element, those terrific tragic tornadoes—as
building agents, or religious agents, while floored for sanctified: this
mountain inverted, this wilderness averted, while tenses to voices plague our
darkness).
