I
giggle softly; I chime with ghosts; it’s getting dreary: this bold enterprise,
this key in phantoms, this wild-haired daughter: at church laughing, fettered
to shame, to worship akin to fawning: this overthrow, this apparition’s robe,
those gold faithful(s): that tender canine, that ruthless feline, at chills
bleeding liquor: oh for inhibitions, to battle a womb, to caress a flower:
those tall lies, as acorns laughing, this trail of palm trees: to cut with
silence, to thrash a vixen, while held in rich contempt: our bedroom cries, our
public eyes, while chided for honest existence: this pistol watching, this
monster controlled, this envelope waxing with conceit: those feral emails, this
taxi to God, while Love sprinkled a young stallion: moreover, those curses,
this tender amore, if but to claim
embarrassments: this flock of professors, this internal hawking, this external
sigh—to try with rabbits, to incur violence, while too scientific turns our
guts: to need for worship, this mutual character, this froward behavior: so
ignescent, an ankh by coffins, our spirits beat and bruised: those burning
daffodils, this flagrant afflatus, or Love unbeknownst as this roaring fulcrum:
to die with action, to passion existence, where arms touched while dropping
forward!
…more
dialogue, more profanity, more dear at deaths: our thicket concerns, our
evidential lives, our present situations: this man as dreams, this future as
screams, but ever too close: to sneak to Vegas, to roam New York, to invest in
every cavity: this flying sun, this reluctant moon, those tides rising into
tsunamis: those dreamcatchers, by this infinite pendulum, to attack airs
looking at invisible souls: our features, Love, as realer than insanity, but
focused on domination: this office war, at non-participation, where Love has
diagnosed a phantom: this see-through child, this feature when it cries, this poison
to sense this need: but Love is richness, this interior sculptress, while it
felt like hell to unlock: (this true tale, to ponder as deeply, We aren’t open until genius crosses our
paths): indeed, this furious knot, this furious frame, this furious curse:
at prose with silence, but ever so vocal, while Love watches bleeding her
courage: to grit with deaths, this itchy balm neck, those ferocious balm lions:
if but to convince, this world to senses, while some are captured by certain
sentences: our oily scalpels, our fables in platinum, to sale a man a dream
twenty years chasing: to love and adore, that foolish soul, while terrified of
giving him respect: this need to be captured, if but to break free, while a
family is hostage to careless frustrations: our minds as puppets, our
confidence laughing, where Love adored a second visit….
I’m a
ghost, or something knitted, or something, thereunto—this inner basket, those
marbling eyes, to become yeast inflating bread: at manikins with pride, at
roots un-vowed, at Love leaving things alone: this feral being, this ruthless being,
this violent reject: as men doctored, as women upon a last experience, upon
psychs pleading forgiveness: this inner sunshine, this warm heart, those
sinister angels: as needing flesh, this body encapsulated by spirits, as tugged
for spinning, while souls are coming into existence: our human frames, this
lascivious fount, this inequality: to ghost with insanity, to lies with
profanity, to dwell in hostility: those blue vines, those red clouds, those
burgundy skies: as aroused to rise, or to arise feeling disgusted, to engage in
sex while fretting pure blackmail: this treacherous feeling, this scar
bleeding, while unbeknownst to both parties: if but this life, or but this
game, without reaching repercussions: as desiccated souls, or log-less
ambassadors, where Love was sick for something impermanent: as not to hold
violence, but simmer unto silence, where it felt tremendous last Christmas:
this friend with deaths, those outer ladybugs, or splendor so loud we must
possess life: our shatterproof souls, our notorious armor, while picking God’s
Padlocks.