I
lost us, so early in development, as crucial to survival: those rehearsed
cries, this falling and laughing, those tormented armors: our narrow escapes,
flesh burning sensations, or tears muddled with mud: our droopy lies, those
casual underpinnings, or feelings where nature has gone awry: to chance a
fever, and always heavy, while Love is smiling: our discreet existence, to ask
multiple questions, to investigate sanity: our sexual heater, this ‘thing’ as
universal, to imagine but moments with participants: that deadly odor, this
quivering nature, to feel sheer anger attempting to rest: indeed, with pains,
indeed, with luxuries, as sent to suffer!
I
awoke to silence, this shrub oak panel, those trenchant heartbeats: to bestow
upon life, this questionable insistence, while ruled for travesty: our Rousseau
Confessions, our Kierkegaard Diaries, or this feeling as trekking to-and-fro:
those golden eyes, this Picasso portrait, or those tender memories: as speaking
to concrete, slashing it with abstracts, to realize total indifference: that
stronghold, those blatant sentiments, this regular rattletrap: at hourglass
thoughts, or treacherous with resistance, while thoughts have become morbid:
our knell-witted carnations, or your silhouette, where it felt embarrassment to
keep company: our closets filled with secrets, our mothers fraught with fury,
while we imagine a humble castle: this area of concern, this rubric lie, plus,
this unborn nostalgia: to tense with passion, to feel a certain spark, while
treasured for love.
…such
difficulty, through mystical lenses, confused, and absorbing this crystal moon:
our inter-directories, our colorful autumn, plus, our tender aromas: at jigsaw
roots, as fastidious winners, to resist anything imperfect: our perfect relations,
our perfect souls, our rebuilt castles: or once this for that, while now that
for this, where memories are buried in teas: those old tears, this newly built
sanity, while something shocking is at our doors: indeed, so intimate, indeed,
so redeemed, while, in parts, a person only knows but a little: to ask for more
water, our topaz seaweeds, this space between purgatory and hell: our thoughts
shimmering images, our guts rumbling incessantly, or this guilt for closeness:
that wonderful person, as long as dazed, to insist upon total enslavement: our
naked armor, our transparent prevarication, or devious symbolism…those starry
eyes, this butterfly effect, and those tender lies: as said for love, to imbue
with love, or to evade something that comes across as indelicate….
Our
jejune swan, this jejune relationship, those jejune lies: our constellations,
as perfect witnesses, but remaining silent: those candid pictures, as discarded
quickly or our salient skies: that loud sun, as speaking in riddles, and our
dreams that life is real: those sidereal pages, this know for seeing, while one
distresses our sights: something emerges, this inner theft, to realize those
trenchant realities: as better with or without, or torn with wanting out, or
merely at needs that something changes: this deep trap, this castle rebuked,
while neighbors partake of trauma-season: our shipwrecked lives, to have invested
years, while one is angry that scents are wafting: our lighthouse frenzy, our
wings to lone-island, while seated six inches to affection: at search for
miracles, but something is intransigent, while remaining inflexible: at bent
seconds, to seem but human, where egos are stroked for leverage: those pensive
times, at wistful arms, to come again feeling secure: this round planet, those
meters to scars, or clever to do as one wills…
…while
Agony is livid, to sense this disconnect, where Love has a fleet of parasites:
or Love is gentle, conforming to times, permitting this round of dice,
permitting this open marriage.
