…take
it to soul, our Dear Beloved, at grapes and cherries and lush apricots: this
foolish man, to designate wars, while pitied for maladaptive techniques: this wilderness
for you, this tight rope for you, at tenses blended into furies: our milk with
cakes, to coffee with creams, our lemons with sugar: this ghetto enterprise,
this welkin sting, to float attached to mystic auras: our burgundy sun, our
bleeding Infinity, as built around
total silence: our warm hearts, this palatial queen, as never a sight and
filled with panic: at tall tales, this allegorical, or swigging white havens:
our tapestry yogis, our inner watches, to Fossil for ruined: this inner
fugitive, those diamond glasses, to swoon with passion those quadroon swans: at
miracles and running, at strife and gunning, to believe as one wrestling with God: this fine figure, this molasses
woman, or asexual bouts with invisibility: that one song, to endear his heart,
at waves searching for Ry’s arc: this inner pilgrim, those ruthless ships, or
those rawer pirates: at insanity laughing, at psychs a bit passive, while alert
to dirty laundry: this fool, Love, at maniac calmness, while adored for
cultured: at beige mountains, at Desert Storm, while afraid to passion an
Arabic woman: our castles, Frightened, our aches, Mystic, or this remembrance
crumbling into misprints….
I
don’t know us, but infused by us, this green atmosphere—those jasper lenses, those
long legs, those interior seeking eyes: our couch lavish, if but with weeds, to
sea our last cry: this Candy Man, roaming inner lock-wheels, a bit too young
for focus: those radiant gems, this crime rate, those twenty until deaths: at
casual screams, this sugarcane valley, if but for taken about this sky: our
rabble artists, our gravel profanity, while reality appears abstract: at one confession,
this partial part of self, at Love while wandering higher terrains: our guts,
our feelings, but ruined if Love ached a forbidden union: our blood dripping,
our bowels running, our avenues becoming that impasse: as Love watches, and
Love fantasizes, but Love has concretized her name: if but to die, while
gripped and funning, where Love gave life by an agonizing hypothesis: this
inner theory, as elusive maniacs, to gristle an entire library: to fuse with
passion, to feel as hearts lifted, while scooped by taxis: those crying arcs,
this daughter’s accident, to lie in hopes of spacial reality: our guts
slithering, if but one breath, while essence proves its intestines: this
magnificent passion, this agonizing brain, or more to doors pushing for
becoming insistent.
…it
became clear, such deserted fathers, laughing for outwitted: or detached,
feeling goodness, this plank in sea-forests, our arms screaming elation: as a
casual thought, or a penchant curse, where abandonment becomes plural: our
dreams by graves, this tomb by daughters, those slaves for money: to insist
upon this emotion, for time shall invade, where sights become unsighted: our
kleptic rites, our Greek horizon, our numbness becoming enemies: as floored by
dumbness, this chase in men, while Love awakened a particular faux pas: this
wellish ambition, those old songs, or this woman claiming virgin: indeed, to
laughs, while acting perfectly, if but this deflowering curse: at bold
enterprises, accursed for lonely, at one last psych: our music at tempo, our
tulips as gazelles, or rabid this galaxy at tormented damages: to cry with Jesus,
this inner feeling, while others claim for warped spaceships: this family of
three, at short horizons, while grandpa wonders but saying little: this same
ship, those similar bars, if but to arise preaching about balance: our inner
cups, our bleeding breads, to need a loquat: at deep deaths, this path as it
follows, at places her irrational faces: to die as lingering, to need such
debauchery, if but to live where clarinets have forsaken’d existence…!
