I’m
dead in seduction, this gracile woman, this mechanical machine: those long
extensions, those curly eyes, or this playful person pulling backwards: if but
to fantasies, to enjoy company, if but our guts realizing catastrophes: at low
frequencies, our showered disgusts, while drawn to putrid scum: at fabulous
hours, sliced by indifference, while Love tangled our intestines: those literary
women, as filled with phantasms, or running for inviting apparitions: those
flavored ghosts, this flavored nightmare, while so addicted rehab has rejected
us: while singing opera, or laughing with arias, to live a concerto: our
bowels, Love, as removed from lights, or running into plights, while children
pick upon indecencies: our berries with gin, our apricots with vodka, or sweet
grapes fermented for glory: our raging hearts, this furious fire, while filmed
internally. I’m sick for us, this miracle
curse, this religious sin: to know for brick walls, to call for Jesus, while
convinced that true religion becomes mysticism: if but to dine, as but to
laugh, or crying so gently our birds are watching: this plural agenda, this
psychopathic infatuation, those rosy brown crooning(s)—while life is psychotic
features, and psychs are boarder that line, where psychologists speak about
forgiveness: this inverted disposition, those lakes by our dreams, as if
nostrils were raging for scents: our losses, Love, to infuse our sketches,
Love, while Love was sick with violence: those angry do-goods, this angry exhaustion, to attract something just as
livid: our purple horizon, our Mario instincts, or our Care Bear insouciance: as loving creatures, fleshed through with
games, as if too close too soon means death: our acting skills, this woman
claiming virgin, to meet with resistance and fall for excitements: as young
lads, peering at adventure, our teachers susceptible to overt admiration: if
but to hold course, as but to embrace force, where a man swears by damages an
elastic womb: at needs to destroy, while sentenced to gristle, where Love felt
certain sensations: at dying lesions, but purely at screams, to rebuke for
falling while scared to lose.
I must
confess, this lingering obsession, while wrestling this daily suggestion: to
imagine mental activity, this repeating of names, while holding to particular
pictures: those enforced images, this tale concerning prose, this poet lit by
sky-mystics: our yogic ambitions, this Ashram
of energies, or this village of projectiles: to woodblock a feeling, to
scribble as artists, or to seek something Irish: that holy marigold, those
flashy airs, or light tiptoeing a woman’s countenance: as men running, if but
to Love, where days and nights seem a struggling battle: for minds sway, as
acorns accursed, where Kerry sits in diamonds: those fretting curses, this
Jewish Nation, or this Amish nudging: at forbidden currents, our oceans
laughing, our Greek Goddesses pushing at resistance: our local habitats, our
local taverns, our Sufi exotics: (at foreign women, so bold so daring, and ever
so possessed: those electric eyes, that tint by essence, that possessed aura:
our local arcade, while deeply evaporated, to grip, tug, and die for hours):
therewith, this sick sensation, this fluffy heartbeat, our galvanized
mental-brains: as accursed unknowingly, or damaged beyond measure, while
surfing towards waves: such deadly flowers, such rabid intoxication, such grip
with pulls to tug a galaxy: thitherto, this infatuation, if but to adorn
majesty, if but to outwit destiny: that crucial creature, our mothers churning
graves, our memories disputing solemn oaths: as simple souls, or simple
conundrums, a bit confused but caring: where music resides, at lightning
forces, to strike, imbue, and shift our universe: those deep incisions, this
tiptoeing of blades, or remarkable sins proving into legacies: those rendered
secrets, those rendered jewels, while Love was so adorable—this feeling creature,
those radish replies, or years to remaining by turmoil.
