I
love as lost, this inner diary, this glued friction: to feed geese, and build
relations, a tear so under-weather: those islands we dance, this trapdoor by
electricity, this tarantula speaking tongues: as men dying, affected for
afflicted, our women fraught by justification: this tricky world, as affected
by feelings, or effected by television: our black tension, this Black Swan, at
rafts three deaths into canyons: our miracle upon dynasties, at lengths
disguising total belligerence, while filled with something petrifying: our last
glory, our last theory, as about a galaxy: to tell mother, this last
discussion, while warring with words: this field bleeding, our soil-blood,
those ashes upon Wednesdays: to change his life, as abused with penchants, our
pensive galleries: as men gathering, or women planting, this lotus upon its
blossom: those few days, this grave of Buddhists, to arise claiming access:
*our garbs with silence, this reckless death, to outwit our Jesus: this
psychologist, so witted with knowhow, where here
becomes a catastrophe over there: our
apophatic behavior, our grim majesties, as sexual to neutralize disgusts: this
center of sorrow, as angry and dying, while singing as feeling abused: this
pleasure center, this lack of solace, so counter-intuitive: those women causing
pardons, to commit disasters, where it felt like heaven to trespass: to find
it’s working, this social distaste, this flirting with illness: our colleagues
watching, our leap-frog crises, or more, committed to crying while supported:
our madness rivers, this bold delicacy, to find something so deep it ruins
existence: those few friends, watching as we survive, to apologize a bit too
much*: these theses craving, this window washing, those ceilings dying: as men
livid, or women crashing, so strong this wretched desire: our Euro Black
essence, this penchant musical, our deepest heart-cuts: while flippant and
laughing, or cursed and grinning, to infuse an old memory: as if fed, even
full, so much as vomiting emotion: this midlife crisis, while needing
surrender, if but to pardon our sins: this fool about town, this lively
devotion, while cut for ruined indulging in winning: our mother’s wonders, our
balconies at breezes, to realize another woman’s travesties: that psychiatric
lullaby, those psychiatric dialogues, to gander about our living
intensities. …in no shape at all, at
Asian sacrifice, or breasts so perfect a man is dying: to live such breasts, to
possess ownership, where fools tread islands: our paradise, our romantic,
wall-built wombs—if but our horizon, if but another hospital, while adjusting
to pure rejection.
