…our
reachless arms, our psychotic intoxication, or sisters searching for
kinship…this lucid loser, this caprice princess, or hours to perfecting pure
fire: this feeling as nuance, this knot as wilted, where graves seem homely:
that woman’s eyes, this subtle charm, to realize an emotion screaming about
legacies: those sawed brains, this deadly damsel, or years through Mexico: this
Trixie affair, those burning nebulas, or mystics revving this current
excitement: where women hate, aforetime, to love, while sanctioned for ruined
running through Greece: if but to fly, wrapped in agonies, where rivers run
stagnant: those noble realities, this noble curse, or brains to barrows
laughing insanely: this cage for misfits, or this mother grieving, while our
sons are eating bread corners: our aqua sensations, this tug as richness, or
our tingling palms: of course, her eyes, of course, her cries, or days to Dallas
building an Empire…. I’m sickly with
passion, to designate a muse, while so deep enlove I can’t whisper—this
friendly desiccation or this raffled execution, while so young he became a
legend: this quixotic curse, this thirst for danger, or this picture perfect
opening: indeed, he dies, as lifted by leaves, where this army built queen
desecrates immortality: that woman’s tears, as wiped with acid, or three lines
to set our pace: those cuffs grinding, if but against flesh, at half an hour
she found new Love: where men lose sanity, if but this exclusive seed, to
realize that lies encourage Empires: those fine
wings, this exterior Love-shark, or actresses built for long-range—at
puffy hearts, or trickling spiders, while mixing vodka with scorpions: that
churning sensation, this gutted mystic, or kites to Jupiter those isles: if but
with illness, or this beautiful monster, to inquire about winning
loyalties…. …we exhaust pleasures,
lost in reveries, and deciding upon our foundation: this mental edifice, this
seduced creature, or this sultry fox: our dresses torn asunder, our bodies
bleeding perfume, and our guts becoming bowling intestines: those revved
warriors, those vertigo brains, or parachutes striking through ghetto
consciousness: as heads spinning, or engines within arteries, while shorn for
perfect as alone we thought: this feeble soul, at Love with vengeance, to
arrange a Persian wedding: those bald lies, those bold replies, this burgundy pint
of sin: as losing wilderness, to arrive in summer, while mythic mystics hide
closely….
…those
gibbon cries, those hyena eyes, this miracle to suggest, I deserve Life: as
hearts thrusting, or energies maneuvering, where Love has proven destiny: to
pet our sea-lions, or to purchase a seahorse, while perishing softly as a
neighboring flower: this garden of daisies, those tropical ankles, or that
irregular scent: as machines moving, so lost to travesties, while border-line a
bit crude: this velvet dress, those high heeled rebels, this bowl of
peaches—where Love is ruined, or where Love is flying, to know this person
while ashamed of Love: as cruel messengers, or 300 orphans, or souls raised for
perfections: this mother teaching, this father grooming, or years tugging piano
keys: if but this life, associated with high-rises, our minds three million
miles into jackals…those fuchsia intuitions, or fuchsia intellects, to look
closely as eyes water: that dying turtle, that sentimental cinema, or seconds
to eating a steak: as lives our guts, this feeling magnet, where Love appeared
in purple: our wheels of color, our diamond excursions, or dreams too
fantastical to become our reality…those Grecian Islands, this turn towards
forgiveness, where a near-souled-friend points at profanity: that masked
weaver, that gracile spine, or neck to buttocks destroying his courage: those
tawny souls, this quadroon reality, or this mestizo
witness…!
