Wednesday, November 28, 2018

Padlock Treatise


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.

Empty Space

    I’ve been in this space before—it seems natural, the affection of energies. Such interwoven moods, a series of underpinnings. A differen...