I
can’t for knowledge, as adrift at magic, so tragic those multiplied habits: our
wilderness, this soft kiss, those musical life-deaths: this trickling ice,
those rosy manikins, or travesties so bold it felt good: those thighs laughing,
this soul panting, those agonies at mercy—as cut with lace, as chased with
delirium, or lyrical silence: this quote for thieves, this cuff for women, as
alive knowing better those feelings: this subtle thump, this man’s wife, this
fair too off our maps: while feeling dementia, or relived for failing, while
angst gored and gnawed his intestines: to love as sickness, so cold with
vengeance, to arouse as sighted to demean: that money frenzy, those big body
trucks, this dice so intimate I’m failing: to throw cash-bundles, this stripped
pole, this Cardi B—those inner Jennifer’s, this river torch, those Rihanna’s
giggling—as accustomed to Beyoncè’s, or texting Gwen Stefani, or something so
skinny it dies passed age limits: this rewound clock, this penchant for voices,
or at currents fleeing oceans: that bad pendulum, those tossed brains, or
styles to guts laughing for tortured: this curse to dancing, this moon by
stars, or terrible white chocolate—as too evolved, and feeling normal, while
majesty giggles!
I
swig a gulp, I light a cigar, I ponder my lungs: this zip those years, this key
those planes, this man as dying to love something dying: this full fool, this
intimate guess-game, where Love gives for feeling ruined: this happy magnet,
this clown at laughter, those buildings speaking French: this tongue pain, this
religiosity, to adore Love swimming through Maria: this Mary queen, this halo
travesty, this dance to long greetings: if but dynamics, if but those ankles,
if but breasts blasting his eyeballs: our fire-grit, this gristle bone, this
marrow womb—while fleeing for floating arranged in gutters: this blood-shine,
this blue territory, those burgundy sun-cliffs: as affronted for reserved, too
stressed for forward, while Love was quite pleased: this shift in turns, while
aches claim mercy, to distress his appetites: our child watching, this
theologian failing, while anger has destroyed insights.
I
arrived at skateboards, or destined for destruction, at passion whistling by
Jesus: our fabulous brains, this window opened, or so cursed for enjoyed Love
is aching nonsense: this howling sky-fever, this wolf bleeding angst, or days
to sewers floating upon goose-down
comforters: those nights at membranes, that would if foresighted, or guts too
familiar to claim pure deaths!
