…we play mischief, at terrifying
wavelengths, or casual drags to smoke: this mental smaze, this throbbing
kitchen, our bowels at war-houses: this churning music, this bloated pash, or
tears for sudden that reason: to feel good, if but those remedies, as
accustomed to feeling sore: this inner station, this longing frequency, or
channels to souls unbeknownst: that pail of turtles, this internal castle, or
those childhood memoirs: our parents at trespass, our mores so relaxed, or
anger to father his guts dripping….
…it was hell this fitted lie, as reasonable creatures, or elusive
scoundrels: those pale legs, those brown eyes, that slender provocation: our
years at souls, our bodies at curses, or this Amazon wife: to cut his mind, to
loosen ethics, or crunching morals: this field of academia, those loud lies,
those fuming souls: to fret Jesus, as to sentient arms, at daredevil accolades:
those running tumbleweed, this dark grave, our crawling atmospheres: where Love
said, Heaven, this drenched mechanic,
at fears our daughters have died…this robotic box, our casual faces, those
talkative thighs—at deep forgetfulness, if but to persevere, listening to tall
babble: this story concerning eternity, this raunchy derrière, this raunchy,
classic armoire: as deviled machines, so sick her brains, and so slow his arts:
this mad adventure, this massive capture, this sip dipping into her
hemispheres: as hating our guts, but sick to gossip, or thrusting for failing
looking into dungeons: this blighted woman, this perfect catastrophe, this
lenient genius: at mathematics, pushing adolescence, and wearing seductive
wigs: as mice nuzzle cotton, or snakes dig deeper, to arise seated aside
leviathan’s sister….
…we hear monsters; we love monsters; we
dice and mince rice failing to love clearly: this failing man, this winning
woman, our thoughts concerning longevity: but Love is sick, and Love is love,
and art to bone our canvas screaming about Love: this bowl of liver-works, this
soul of fireworks, or those landmines so fueled with seduction: those scheming
brows, that African nose, or those European brains: to see veins, those running
lines, this color made imperfect: to disappear, as lost to complexion, while
falling into desperation: this casual lip-print, this casual pinch, those
cocaine teeth: if but for ruins, this island chin, those locking jaws: that
yarn neck, that sleeping apple, or those remarkable shoulder-blades: those
Jesus pieces, this flannel war, those cold disguises—to ask of knowhow, to wonder
and wander through zoos, as sick with thoughts—this fueled blinder, our fueled
guts, to partake and come back to living: this sea-torn damsel, this rich
melancholia, if but our sickness unto desperate loyalty: our raging hormones,
this child our guns, this myth our tyranny: to dine with images, to sense a
perfect person, to die laughing with sorrow—this vex those abilities, to create
a sought man, while Love hopes for fair simplicities—this river of rhinestones,
this shaman dancing, and our child strewing petals…!
