…our
mystic dynasties, to behold a nightmare, or thrust through (internal)
territories: our screams, our guts, or this space seeming indifferent: as
coming like winds, or running like athletes, or churning like butter: our
disguises, at lovelocks, or alone a dungeon curled into a knot: our itchy flesh,
our mental termites, or curiosity strumming our heart’s guitar: those thrumming
wings, afloat and weeping, where onlookers demonize us: at pure intensities, at
internal catapults, while climbing clouds downward: this pitted crevice, this
communion with earth, or those internal leaves: such auburn fury, compelled to
existence, as one balancing wildness: to speak loudly, to chime with friends,
or at home so exhausted while making eternity: this space in racing, this road
so afar, or our sandals aching for succor….
I
demand clearance or rapture or our spiritual bodies: upon a rose and
hysterical; upon soil digging into passion; or upon sky-beds searching those
images: at sudden a visitor, this creature of forgiveness, at something gray
but winning: our loud silence, our concentration, our mystic wilderness: this
secret by sin; our celebrated entrance; for only illness requires a physician.
…we
need something medieval—at heated refinements, or dragged and grogged sprinting
through hemispheres: those talkative atoms, those instrumental molecules, at
miracle wonders concerning cultic properties: at participation, to presuming
I’m writing, while concerned about other participants: this deep resistance, to
look at something written, to find surprise and stimulation: those years to
sprinting forward, those nights to one last line, or those copious manuscripts
seeming manic: this fair person, watching through lenses, while washing mystic
contacts: that remarkable kiss, those
remarkable circumstances, where certain brain-levels introduce something
ghostly: our minds with compartments, where something is triggered, or maybe
one is under deep duress: our somber feelings, mixed with elation, while
sipping cold coffee: where something inward leaps, giving an external
impression, where one has tapped in:
this terrible reality, where words are web-traps, and wordless experience leads
to inquiries: that mindful person, or that cryptic-cultic person, as experiencing
phenomena but disregarding something unvetted: this private sphere, those
ubiquitous experiences, where honesty labels its insanity: this river at
mirrors, alike to ships at seas, while mystic becomes a term of maladies….
I
drift into us; I drift out of us; It has become a daily whistle: as guided
creatures, listening to interior clocks, realizing certain sensitivities: our
revving canyons, our riveting voices, or needs deploring our ontic, internal
sentience: at floor-beds seated, at armoires metaphorical, at credenzas sorting
through ancient literature: such cultic graffiti, such sky-fire dilemmas, where
it would be painful to disappear: that state of nothingness, as void of interior activity, while forced to wait:
this hellish insanity, our burdens our dreams, as pure our existence: those few
encounters, those super forces, this island where such has become stimulus: our
sighted eyes, our aura cries, at living-room lakes: as taught so early, to impose
a certain certitude, while becoming ancient with science: or diehard hierarchy,
this need in personhood, where thoughts are mapped by approval: our needs in
baskets, our flowers in vases, or determined to fly despite this private
atmosphere: as realized ghosts, or mystic allies, running through cryptic
valleys: to confess to mirrors, or to refresh mirrors, like symbols washed by
violins—this a-mythical dimension, as kept secluded, where dialogue is
hypothetical: this pure escape, this curtain with glitter, this acapella veil:
as realness vetted, or phenomena examined, or intimacy defined.
