…as softness celebrates, tragedy becomes
normal, where mother would vanish tales: this cider of lightning, this thunder
by pollution, or laughs chugging sorrows: to guzzle thrashings, while broken
for Love, to possess this legendary typhoon: those red eyes, those rabid tries,
those heinous thighs: to gut her soul, as souls distressed, where Love simmered
in kleptic hostility: our travesty maniacal(s), our honesties map-like, to
realize Love has spread short by evidence: this psychotic feature, as ever our
frontier, to analyze by gut or phallic exploration: those melon moments, to
listen too closely, at war with treacherous dragons: to sense as yielding, to
pain with majesty, at tender this new butterfly: while father cringes, where
mother knew her name, while daughters shiver into venom: those old habits, that
ménage a trios, or that swop party: those cocaine lines, that bottle of
ecstasy, or those uppers mixed with downers: to feel imperfect, while to live
elated, where morning tasted like insanity: our triggered eyes, this black
space, or our years running into damaged love: this whiff of skin, this plastic
aroma, and rooms scented by strawberries: where uncles laugh, while mothers
swear, as but this celebratory adventure: or men falling for legs, those Amazon
women, this man trying at desperate uneasiness: this hell’d hologram, this
picture from Jesus, as majesty clutches this angelic mischief: to die feeling
greed, this magnificent essence, as sewn to wombs as running into pluralities:
this golden philosophy, of women dying hard, if but to celebrate this un-tinted
mirage: those trials to senses, this feeling in eons, to be taught as one
psychotic: this tender treachery, if but for ruins, where Love ached at ribs
this soul to tortures—at bold chaos, those marks to flesh, or this tooth slung
from necks: as cursed and livid, or dying with justice, to laugh while tasting
gumbo: those torn adventures, this lenient disguise, where Love passes with
time….
I give game, for one that listens, for one
gifted with discernment: this lavish life, this balling street curse, or
parents sold to addict slavery: our feelings as non-discreet, our hearts
beating to quarters, or our women manipulating our wintry natures: or men as
rugged, or stories as jagged, while both coyotes are pleading innocence: to
trust vaguely, as to know our ruins, where trust becomes foreign: this shorn
advice, this mandatory investigation, as to find nothing while filled with
animosity: this knee-deep game, this neck-high rain, or this Stewie
enterprise—where Love is sexy, and Love satiates, but life has confused
reality: that man to heights, this reception as bleeding, but others seem appealing:
this market of thieves, this temple of money exchangers, this angry and
prolific innocence—while courage wanes, for justice is by muscle, while too
much power corrupts absolutely: this man’s world, or this woman’s novel, where
novelty is cute for three seconds after love: to die as living, or to live as
dying, or to invest twenty years in losers: this thought to brains, this easy
acceptance, or summers agonizing over mere perceptions.
…we meet dungeons, as slimy vultures, or
to live as inner victims: to victimize, to court travesty, while manipulating
angels: those fair maidens, this gutted emotion, as alive but terrible with muddy
lakes: this feud for persons, to love that one instinct, as personalities
rotating: this vague essence, to give entire lives, while regretting where
reality surges gravel: our passionate oceans, this fatal seaweed, our thorns
choking tumbleweed: where mother ravishes, if but those sights, to internalize
nonchalance—as looking for Love, this treasure to winds, to come by years
realizing our loses: this film at nine, this news at ten, as more to curses
fleeing through prospects: or laughing at debaucheries, or courting
treacheries, while abusing anything innocent: our days at madness, our women at
deception, our men to compromising lies: as young with Jesus, but alive in
Darkness, to come to grips an hour too late….
