I sense for Isley’s, I dine with mystics,
I speak as if our years are plural—this bleeding cultic, this lavish
heart-base, or waves to guts florid this red moon: as men crying, for feeling
Bhakti, assumed in shamans winking at Jesus: this pain in losers, this thrust
in Asians, or romantic tides crushing our islands: as butterfly angst, or blue
sun gravity, where souls thrust through energies: this vexing terror, our
bodies dangling, amidst midair seeking leverage: those pearls, Love, this fool,
Love, as bent searching for something perfect: that woman’s guts, or sins
bottled in chain-links, or childlike abandonment: those deep dialogues, this
winner as demented, to cuss with life this inferno redemption: our alibis,
Love, our wretched disgusts, while running towards our disgusts—this bus of
bees, this stinger blinded, this bee dying—those seconds laughing, in pure
insanity, while an infant felt its vibe: this prime beef, this Asian noodle, or
bent for dead living through passion: where aches crevice, or caves collapse,
while Love tore Christ’s bones.
…it felt for deaths, this life with
vicious, this inner sound-bite—those bacon tithes, this cremated carcass, this
edible jar of bone remains—as lifted for reckless, or gates that open, to enjoy
sex seven minutes after introductions: where mouths laugh, as souls rudder, to
gut for destruction lingering in eyes: this threshing addict, this courtside
vandal, or vicious mania those rice-like diamonds: if but to gallop, as but to
pretend, while lives seem unjust: this ravished maniac, those bails through
billions, to realize it felt good to seize incarceration: as slipped for
admiration, this trillion dollar woman, as beyond this literary purchase: to
want reality, while flagrant with fantasy, where Love was ached to flee: those
jasmine lights, this turquoise star, or those habits blatant for ruined: if but
to escort, this zillion to concerns, this algorithm shorn for destroyed—as
pumping with corners, to adore this vex, at dungeons speaking this flex to eyes
as treacherous….
…with evil rites, this drill to concerns,
our days to sherm daddies: this cake as pancakes, this dip as trillions, where
popping became traffic: those lanes shivering, this gut trembling, and about
ten adversaries: this confidence, this steady walk, this ten to blame as dying
for Jesus: at Mexico Empires, or lavish as cut with rain, to adventure torn
with Greeks: that beautiful woman, those beautiful calves, this strength where
souls are dying luxuries: to flint with Ghosts, or to move this door, where war
appeared far for vengeance: those feeling agents, this jasper canine, or this
invisible loyalty: to rupture as ruined, this deep agonizing climax, while Love
seems invented: this mind affair, this introversion, where 5 0 1’s hang and God
seems influenced: this sinning winter, this repenting summer, or floor to
partner peering his life: those robust breasts, those camel eyed pants, to
sense this gorilla’s derriere—as fighting with essence, to floor with
intention, while Love decided to remain committed….
I blaze *Adele, or sink into reservoirs,
at tongues consisting this woman’s wishes: at passionate dislikes, of ravished
concerns, where Love appeared in camouflage: this addict lullaby, those cold
Decembers, or life at trillions chopping cocaine: this fool at lifts, this man
at Baby, or shoes purple by redeemed brains: these inner mantis, this outer
lieutenant, or this guiding post speaking Italy: as guts explore, this world of
rhinestones, or this woman too resistant for purchase: this carved insanity,
this Mesopotamia, this Great Chief, where mother sensed for crawling this dying
son: as listed with jade prints, or thumbed by black and white, where Love felt
good that autumn and seven lovers: this force dripping, this galaxy athletic,
while pure for sin and alive in resurrection: those bold imprints, this box of
violence, or this woman pretending that lake of normalities: to die with
anguish, or live with answers, while no one is listening.
