It mustn’t be bad, for life streams, and I
saw a smile:
this feudal perspective, those rose beads, or apricots in bloom: while kneading
existence, to persist as aliens, in so much, a scar: this death infestation,
this walking miracle, while accustomed to gold plated bars: those lenient eyes,
as abused by rulers, a woman three children and thirty men: to live by curse,
to extract by wisdom, at grounds pillaging tombs: that star grieving, this
screamer dying, where times are harder to satiate. I panic ice, at love with steal, reciting
our twenty third Psalms: this fire engine, at radical conclusions, to sense as
something damaged: those dreams, this curious creature, this world of
uneasiness: our portraits distorted, our images forged, our exospheres so far:
to tiptoe clouds, searching for our rockets, at torque digesting helium: this
floating car, this cheetah in vain, or animosity those eighth tiers: this kamikaze
jet, those kamikaze ear-posts, to retreat headed into foreign territory: this
infant reading, this kitten laughing, those hyenas watching: as innocence is
cultivated, while needing tiger instincts, where reality has a common thread:
this feud in souls, our parents debating over literature, in much
distress. It seemed peaceful, broken
in parts, and needing a savior: this feral incline, this dungeon in men, while
needing this typical appeal: to save like thunder, to reap benefits, where strength
begets voyages: enough with that, and more with life, while searching into dark
nights: to swoon so gently, those sweet guitars, or that sweet essence: in so
far, a mirage, those captions in print, or days beyond retreat: those realized
thoughts, this tragic bastard, those whiffs by candles: our shattered lives,
our tragic bill, where it felt good to hurt innocence.
I
regurgitate life, a noetic intuition, a rapid impulse: our shrubberies, our
city highways, our court rooms: this crazed activity, in Downtown Los Angeles,
and those crazed eyes: that old territory, this terrestrial trial, those Divine
properties: to turn this way, as she churns that way, where a child stands in
stillness: those fake apologies, as assuming courses, while evermore pointing
at damages: therewith, this want for goodness,
while pleading spirits, to realize that no one is listening: this tall
building, that fatal clash, where one says something insensitive: that Stewie
Empire, those long miles, that filthy, convoluted road: this map region, those
trenchant vanguards, while threshed and feeling unholy: while it meant little,
sipping fig juice, and lunging into traffic: as jutting violence, or juggling
silence, while jousting with ghosts: herewith, those gray thoughts, our stinky
thoughts, if but one last tryst: to ask for belief, to retrieve belief, to feel
terribly indebted. We pinpoint
faults, We ignore reflections, or We pause feeling discomfort: at ends
unraveled, our leaves shedding, our loosened souls feeling suffocated: at
terrible highs, or attractive lows, shifting through deceptive matter: such
pseudo-science, or pseudo-metaphysics, at pseudo-poetry—this mental galaxy,
this craved license, those crazy ass demons—if but to fly, negotiating
contracts, to lose while winning: this great force, those tepid eyes, to wish
his ultimate abeyance: indeed, to grin, thrashing into tornadoes, and greeting
something un-treated.
