We
abide softly, those primate clocks, at waves and cushions: our poetic forests,
our cultic charms, our immortal habits: to arise and deforest, or sluggish
feeling mercy, our nights with bowling: those marmosets with offspring, or this
country of silence, where sympathies germinate: therewith, this calm chaos,
this normal malady, where something seems wrong: but tales are vibrant, and
lies are radiant, and illusions are glamorous. I fiddled a flork, and pondered patriots,
this feel good necessity: such sufferable decisions, or regular indifference, our
days trekking through gum: such opposite magic, such reeling kilns, and such
mystical mime art: our inner pilots, this countenance of Aviators, or wings
speaking softly: thereto, those women of prose, or music, or to play violin, or
to dance piano: those cultivated and rounded souls, too steeped in marsh, where
hours pass unthreading our skies. It
aches to adore, it feels good to adore, it confuses us found at adoring
fawn-deserts: such incandescence, peering into deep selves, or abandoned to
seeing so little: our pagan lusts, our rebuked asylums, where others remember
insensitivities: moreover, our pantomime hunches, our talkative guts, or such intense
passivity: thither, this light, this faint composure, looking at our toes: or
bleached with insecurities, attempting this voyage of love, becoming sensitive
aphorisms: those phenomena, those whispers, or this inquisitive passion: to
need this vest, to cherish by life, while sharing this spellbound infusion:
those web-like dreams, to envision clear water, to sip a person’s soul.
…those
taupe, topaz treasures, those fuchsia binoculars, or souls content with
closeness: those strobe insights, those mental seabirds, or this tiny miracle
laughing at our jokes: our inner thieves, as robbing our neighbor’s soul, where
lineage appears as destiny: those blanket cries, those candent sparks, or that
glowing insistence: as souls gunning, to unravel drawbridges, or to cage for
self something purple: such deep solace, such crackle waves, or days at poetic
songbirds: our wheels spinning, speaking about arts, or build a wand-flute…at neuron-frustration,
those perceptible eyes, and those imperceptible strengths…!
December
winds, or decorated thoughts, or adorned emotion: such aquatic sentiments, such
rising tides, such elegant debauchery: our souls running, our traffic heavy,
our gaps filled with hopes: freshwater feelings, freshwater cries, or acrobatic
alpha-waves: as charged by silence, or awakened by words, as some adorn certain
patterns: those lakes flowering, our algae trickling, our souls
pitch-light-green: our sails flapping, our prows mysterious, our helms laughing
wildly: our curious colors, our show of knowledge, or such radiant IQ’s: those
resting undertakers, those toxic jokes, where indecencies appear appealing:
that puce wine, those strawberry pies, or silence seeping into manifestations:
that small vignette, that horrifying ballad, at tender concerns for Haiti: our
deep motion, this violent attraction, those pushed limits: to court those eyes,
those hostile lieutenants, those prehistoric witches: hereto, longing for
insistence, at passion with resistance, feeling as if such pleasures are
running extinct.
…such
alchemic beginnings, this race with time,
or those sky-flares: our palms to wet-grass, our souls to heaven’s
corridors, or long treks through mental vestibules: those deep blue ribbons,
our justice wigs, our billow orchids, while bathing in sundew: those nosy
ventriloquists, this echoing through vibrations, or such animal animation: this
semi-nightmare, as so much for gain, while vying with an army of clairvoyants:
those inner dimensions, that scribbled leaflet, or logic at its acquisition:
this building rumor, this chaotic trail, or this narrow-path—
