…we
exhaust something, we flutter in experience, and we wrestle conundrums:
something empyreal mocks, while something human doubts, where reality clashes
with experience: that facial entity, these nudges in arts, or seated kissed in
spirit: our bipolar minds, our manic reasoning(s), and our blurry reception:
(at islands your face, at memories our jurisdiction, while wandering great
lakes: to sense disjunction, our minds meeting, our bodies running: at sunshine
laughing, to sudden upon mood-swings, where something inferno lingers: this
deep hurt, this miracle in shades, while too engrossed to unthread
psychic-fences: our works towards nonchalance, or tender our concerns, thither,
this deep puncture: our ghosts at whispers, or death as inverted, while
wrestling particles of emotion: those esoteria, those mental bowers, at
trenches palming earth: thereto, that countenance, as screaming for distance,
where one is apt to listen): or such charm, to hear something unsaid, or grip
for dying to enter softly: this incredible music, this mazelike horizon, while
running so close moving apart: this seal cut, this leaking wound, at one too
passionate for fainted souls: (we never won, we never lived, we merely died):
this crucial picture, those hanging intensions, those protective devices: at
deep incisions, clamped by reasoning, and abused by morality: this chasing
cheetah, our inner phone, to answer with sheer abandonment….
…years
harass something unfit, but days are gentle with pain, and months drift into
focus: particular hunches, or shipwrecked imagery, or this exhibition through Perdition: those fiery pigeons, those
intimate dancers, this stage of un-attentive actors: for life is distracting,
this otherwise glory, where most are daydreaming: as this for that, or life
some other person, instead of mastering our allotment: (it was good to feel
you, but wonder struck a nerve, to interrogate manic memories: this life of
shames, or persistent disregard, to wonder about psychic cadence: this bounce
through lights, or names trickling asphalts, where hemispheres tug in certain
directions: indeed, a dreamer, to reread his works, while actively dislodging
emotions: at flowers mandated, at rivers carrying nuns, or lost in wilderness
asking questions: at few with facts, as, nevertheless, with facts, where one
trespasses something difficult: those lost cars, those lost women, our motion
daughter: to happen upon a sight, this miracle struggling, this miracle as a
master by design): our soft cadence, this person at wonders, where I’ve met so
many: at seduction his mind, at chorus her intellect, while pulling where
strength has given life….
…they
say, Transgression, this elusive
sphere, while writers need a taste of dying: those manuscripts, our delicate
trespass, and our internal worlds: this fevered minx, this casual sylph, where
it never mattered much: (all those nights, all those mornings, and Love carries
on: as never a heartbeat, and never a drum-kick, but more, this abyss of
skeletons): our deep remarks, as needing Eternity,
if but that naïve, delicate, insatiable attraction: our souls shivering, to
ask if we could, indeed, such furious maturity: at fire dispensing, at
pharmacies receiving, or this exchange that sits in us: such mythical
creatures, such powerful brains, to invoke a particular appeal: those windows
rattling, those grasshoppers talkative, or this clump of yellow grass: to hear
a silent disdain, to feel so foolish, for Why
do we adore pain?: this tale in Shakespeare, those tragic traumas, and our
years chasing similar experiences: to remember you, seated in eyes, while so
disenchanted: to happen upon memories, to sing to deaths, while encouraged to
let freedom—this dance in relics, this anticipation to breathe, or days seated
afore his audience….
