Bought & Sold

I adore you, for hating you, for this mystic moon—our bowels tacit, our synthetic machinery, or casual dreams proving in-casual: to boogie with pain, to adore sorrow, if but this execution: our screams into cotton, our pillows into damages, our brains cooking intelligence: at balls flinty, at backrooms puffing, at bars breaking vodka: those other women, looking for prevailed, while admired for grit: our last purchase, this nickel plated diamond, at Rihanna spent but focused: this inner interior, this chain linking, our guts speaking Spanish—at tongues daily, at maneuvers weekly, while dealing with pash monthly: as never would, indeed, for curses, but dwelling in psychical energies: to have for minds, while sick with police calls, so sludge refuses to motion: our granny’s wits, our mother’s surprise, to have both living in audible membranes: those synthesized approaches, this naked remembrance, while sex has become a bit tragic: at rivers with Buddhists, at lakes with Hindus, or running for twisting with Sufis: our Turkish Rites, our Jerusalem Faces, at Love a bit remotely: to pull his grains, to tug his harvest, while prepared to entreat: those powerful horrors, this reluctant incision, to float about a crucial impasse.  

…it’s always those eyes, so cruel for sensitive, our banks going through motions: our gears thrusting, this Harley revving, this six-by-four machine: as losing insanity, indebted to perfection, where secrets have haunted graves: such beautiful sin, peering at tribunals, a bit too relaxed to feel guilty: those blonde hairs, those rubric lips, to grip for deaths were purchased: our itchy brains, while Love was ruined, to sing at treacherous our resurrection: those silver noose, our bare feet, our naked primrose odors: as men gunning, or flipping fences, if but a moment with something terrible: this lonely, naïve, Begonia, this incredible bail release, at travesties making for what was called, Love: thitherto, this stab lane, this gutter lane, about 70 miles per hour—to thrash Crenshaw, to bump a dime piece, to engage in fevers that evening: our strep and ammonia, our ninety year old virgins, our years thrust’d into religiosities: or foreign gowns, laced in foreign jewelry, our belly dancing maniacs: at tears grinning, this sight for damages, our guts giggling while death has emerged….

…turn our corners, churn our dynamite, look into our women: that damsel in blood, that damsel mopping, our babies flushed and living: this sewer feeling, this pup manure, our aborted seeds at our tribunals: to make it easy, this pantomime, as vocal as last rites: our ceremonies, our inner lawyers, to ask of God a simple question: this Job Empire, this defensive, eager wife, where Job was want to renege: our phantom brains, our crazed Cardi B, or this method speaking Swahili—at gut wars, while needing something mental, while ghosts slither into bodies: at itchy flesh, at broken sinews, or flushed by ruby plum pigmentation: that second with Kim, those seconds with high praise, while realized something inferior: to build a mansion, to clutch a feeling, where damages seem prevalent: otherwise, at delusion, or long-tailed blankets, our sheets with spots: this human instinct, our women demanding devotion, while subject to slip pieces: this tetras enterprise, our rappers cutting sheets, our elevators filled with tigers: at passions laughing, at cognac beast’n, at Beyoncè intimidated, or revved for ruined abandoned to destroying nativities: those cold breasts, those warm breasts, this thigh as alive as wiggling: our legs churning, or Chinese techniques, or calves bleeding pure profanity: those ravished hips, this crying spine, our napes speaking Hebrew: indeed, at flights, or cocky for involved, or running to endure three loses: our Trinity Costs, or Trinity Coasts, at Pacific Oceans laughing in German: this fool in Filipino, this lavish old school European, to hit tracts, scraped unto Africa….