Portfolio by Bubble Bees

…we sip existence, laughing with melancholia, and feeling good: this hope filled existence, those encouraging eyes, this exotic inclination: those brains shearing, or that caustic gesture, while fond of argumentation: this rich existence, this literary existence, or this existential rug: while mommy lived passion, this woman so pristine, as speaking to child adored eyes: to voyage with thoughts, those instinctive conversations, this casual attraction: as souls perish, for distraught by life, where circumstance prevents longevity: that wayward woman, those cold glares, as behaving for one particular troll: our chanced relations, our psychs with umbrellas, as standing upon our awning: at terrible concerns, this mystic hyena, this cultic coyote—as father dines royalties, at laughs chunking dice, to arrive at this perfected seven…those acrylic retinas, those emerald palms, as such to over-glamorize mere exceptions: those high titles, this rich entitlement, where one resents this perfect cinema: our cursing wives, our flamboyant peacocks, or lockets where pictures are replaced: such overexposure, this dragon with child, as this dragon daughter: those golden cries, our coupling arcs, to enthrall through pure energies: that replica by Athena, this key to resistance, or this attitude meant to subjugate: at crisscrossed realities, this mental birth-gem, or hazel fires becoming sapphiric lenses: this man running, this adult-child, while weary this night of lullabies…such stony hearts, or diamond awareness, while one is faithful but holding his crush….     …such brisk values, such aesthetic wingers, of thetic daughters: to laugh with Lilith, as playful with Lilith, where Lilith is proffering massive illusions: our fierce walls, our wildness flame, or this jaguar pawing our souls: those revered women, or sheer disappointments, where one has contorted his very flesh: those expectations, as dearly falsifications, where one is angry about impositions: to love as lost, to hurt as redeemed, while seeping into pools of minerals: this gin with coffee, this cigar with honey, or volcanic ash with admiration: this ritualistic sacrifice, seated at Thor’s Well, or running through this legendary Cotton Palace: as ex-slaves, vying for modern day slavery, to ask of Love this hypnotic sacrifice: if but to rule, by nonchalance, while at Love for pure mercy: our Goblin Valley, this bone belonging to metaphoric whales, or honoring camels made of glass….     …to nibble peaches, or sip vinegar, while too distorted to see our Catty Islands: this woman with vodka, this woman with children, or this professional blending addiction behaviors: as running from life, or awkward with psychs, to come to terms realizing this immortal mother—those rosary rhinestones, this cedarchest of silkworms, or this mental spider laying eggs: to cut with ice, or to warm with furnace, as built up but abrasive with authority: those alluring vices, this flesh so pure, while Love feels ruined for centuries: Arcadian habits, or enticing language, our hours debating classic movies: those debonair lizards, or those alcoholic sophisticates, while souls are sliced for destroyed by physical beauty….     …our painful senses, this wrenching attraction, or this reason to exist: this loss as excruciating, this daughter as moonlit, where stories become affective where reality is one island: but, notwithstanding, we find joy, where men have invested fifty eons into women: this midnight owl, this marigold simile, or this cup of gypsum gravity: those long arms, this reach through darkness, where friends become so close they must run: that inner mutiny, the futility of existence, or this trapeze promising double our rains: by Love we met Christ, this dear blaspheme, however, this extraordinary likeness: this feel for courage, this field for disruption, as two meld into chaotic harmonies: our correlated scruples, our dearest secrets, to admit with Love we feel free to live: to settle as souls, to exhaust clever tendencies, as rapture upsurges a soul into multiple deaths: at shining eyes, or elegant gaits—we resist speaking of physical intimacies: those rustic eyelashes, those drizzling vibrations, or this dysfunctional reality that feels perfect.