…casual
concerns, rusted through, as jaded as tigers: our legacies, slipping cruelly,
an avatar of patience: our broken music, to crumble mid-through, or so damaged
it feels good: such inverted racism, such panic and distance, while craving our
heart-cores: this war on phonics, those fussy crooks, or irregular jeans sold at
regular prices: at catapults, fleeing into darkness, a bit treacherous and
lonely: those keepers laughing, this crypt laughing, this man struggling pains:
if but more grandfathers, if but suffering believers, while one is suspicious
of misery tenets: this fair enterprise, our scheduled baptisms, while
scientists are yelling: at background noises, or pure whispers, where something
speaks concerning suppression: that inner life, aborted but living, seized but
breaking freedoms: our savage arcs, our savage hearts, or this woman pretending
thoughts are forgotten: to drift with passion, in terrible troubles, looking
for denying those mirrors: these mental walls, those Berlin dungeons, or vaults
feeling crucifixion: therewith, this guillotine, this ruffling rabble, at pure
chaos—to dine with Mire, those leaking appendages, our carpet fraught by
sludge: to give vulnerable love, to vulnerable women, a bit upset that
vulnerable became mental hatred: this war on self, this cage in self, to unbar
a lunatic….
…it
appears in thunder, this particle of expression, this slant in realization: at
bones giggling, at marrow laughing, at open surgery wresting a sticky key: our
artery literature, our spirit-maps, while puppies are yelping: we see cuteness,
our souls are buttery, but such confinement seems cruel: this watchful life,
those tormented souls, needing freedom: but more to electricity, this
passionate miracle, this trench built in legacies: as men flying, restricted to
regions, while outside sectors carry appeal: our selected casts, our dire
reality, as chased and paced fifty years gunning: our snobbish ways, while
reality isn’t listening, or afforded a sentimental heart—dying by an unofficial
curse: at deep fuses, abused by resistance, if but this for existence: our
adopted casualties, our love for one existence, as men and women feeling by
drafts: our certified lives, our do for terror vows, where passion seems to
become possessive: at strife and concerns, wounded but flying, about as close
to Love as our interior lectures: if but to believe, this fracture absorbing
faith, where two are closely indebted…albeit,
sluggish, composing through head-storms, a tear tugged at present moment: but
flowers bloom, our tropical islands, our future events…!
…there’s
primary issues, this shift in thoughts, this miracle of synergies: this person
tugging, this plethora of souls, this myriad of concerns: our churning
interiors, our epistemic conundrums, our mental algorithm: at time with
patience, at Love with chivalries, at lights with deep admiration: this color
in thieves, to invade by hearts, while plucked by other thieves: our fuel
leaking, at such Fuchsia Noise, a bit reticent about asking for clarity: those
vague voices, our vague horses, while deep down inside we reject those answers:
as part for penalty, as part for survival, where intricate discourse ruins an
otherwise perfect satisfaction: to know for thoughts, this un-enchanting
review, might diminish this otherwise perfect impression: our precise souls,
our valued delirium, our remarkable sex lives: this candescent, innocent,
provocative enchantress: our black moon, our syllable counts, our loans overdue
for revision: our bank accounts, this new engine, our last rose: to scratch
vehemently, our nails filled with skin, if but Love to rearrange priorities: at
lightning markets, those lightning horderves, while so at home it feels good:
that needy spouse, as needing us, where we know for mood-swings: this (inner) negotiation,
this inward court room, while tending to something our perfect: if but to die this light, if but to matrix this
existence, where Love is chosen for breath....
