…love
is pastel, or guerrilla warfare, as esthetic as resistance: this nameless creature, this misnomer fantasy, this
school of finishing horizons: Love is Scandalous,
an art in science, this space few souls dwell: such by slumber, or Rodeo
Drive, our ghettoes with screams: our green eggs with ham, our tornado
taste-buds, our liquid science: while moving forward, too concentrated for
breath, where Love exhibits something risqué: our cut neckties, our interior
feathers, to witness her name: at curious extremes, yearning but distant, at
tear-cave tattoos….
…we
insist upon integrity, while flying dreams, at something too delicate to
address: our glamour simmering, our souls aching, our bodies as delicacies:
those bold red eyes, that California temper, those New York Arts: while moving
upon thunder, at kitsch about strife, or kneeling in repentance: for love is
crying, this immoveable matrix, or numbing agonies: such blueberry trauma, or
rolling into apathies, while entrenched, rift’d asunder: magic music,
Metropolitan, or damaged diamonds: such critical souls, escaping evaluation,
haunted by ghosts: at Love but shapeless, our desires overrated, our souls
under-discussed: as men looking, or women touching, but a spark those darker
mornings: while love is beautifully sick, or this loving abyss, our milky cries
as tiny sky-droplets: where blue jays watch, our pentacles upon rivers, while
motion slides into crevices….
I
die to inhale us, this passing vapor, our world promising challenges: such
vernal, brown, grassy blades: such zephyr and worship, such gilded emotion,
such glamour deaths: as souls sliced, and opened for surgery, to find Love’s
face: this fresco design, this penchant voice, as proving indelible: those
mental lamps, this shift in destinies, our hands reaching for what was missed:
those rusty basins, as rented from Bethlehem, or those Egyptian lanterns: our
eyes rolling, our spirits puffing, our senses leaping from rockets: if but to
touch, as but to die, to arise with life mere that apex: such ethic born, such
dis-ease unshorn, while walking about with this leprechaun: our abstract sighs,
our ink-pelted souls, or to pause failing our salvation: such etching for paradise,
our bedroom murals, our Father’s Collage: to sing in purple, as stenciled in
jasper, or to lunar by insanity: this beige man, this solar lamp, or incredible
island eyes!
…acres
of love, a shadow gunning, at irregular midday feelings: or thumping loudness,
as souls by chambers, this hallway screaming at curiosity: our inner allusions,
our interval reason-scales, our schemes, rhythms, and aborted stanzas: to tone
guidance, at parental emotion, our terror that glorious ballad: to believe
angst, to culture anxiety, while leering into cauldrons: as, thither, we live,
as, thither, we cherish, while apprised of our losing trillions: such agile
rain, plummeting our souls, skimming through poetical segues: those winning
hips, those winning cries, if but, this winning death: to paint a verse, to sky
by scrapes, to touch something too deranged to ignore: that cache of graces,
those etiquette principles, or hell for reach as behaving badly: this life by
circumstance, to reality so deeply, our souls renewing majesty: our final plea,
our begging lights, to adjure Love: this frantic image, those frantic screams,
at terrible concerns: our minds running, at tender reeds, our palms filled with
soil: our utmost joy, our utmost pain, whether weather is fair: this mystery in
life, to ask for silence, our bodies walking towards memories: at so many it
hurts, at such experience we can’t decide, at such life it’s hard to exhale:
our old-school cloaks, our newfound excitement, our impeding flatness: at
cryptic cries, or cryptic eyes, or muscles pleading deliverance: as sails a
soul, at sullen awareness, or glasses flung at dynasties….
