I
die looking at life, this miracle gem, this sunrise epiphany: to presage,
Precious, to realize disaster, this mark in gravel stating forever: while
cement melts, it returns to solids, where irremovable passion sings about
deaths: this silent guitar, seated in Gucci, or blood bruises sought after
confliction—this man disappearing, this slimy language, as grown men laugh
while embarrassed deeply: to flourish in traumas, at dusty lies, while Love
flowers and looking incredible: at tears those songs, to remember burning
excitement, while God knew our destiny: those beige foundations, this
Maybelline catastrophe, or bowels gunning for terrific!
I
totter indecision, feeling a tragic defunct, while reading through
encyclopedias: this daily chase, to become wise, where chatter discourages this
pace: as candid lairs, so impressed by soul, to die so long it begins to feel
passion: that sallow rose, our bleeding intestines, our milky white fluids: at
tomes befuddled, at tombs blurry, to exit running into desert lands: at prayer
with strangers, as rarely with mother, but deep emphases upon this Ghost: to
hone particulars, to hone excitable(s), while presently churning large sounds:
our guts listening, our thrills penetrated, while most giggle for unbeknownst
reasons: those big planes, those extended wings, to land while admiring human
technology: at deep psychoses, reading spirit-physiognomies, while our psychs
come to focus: at blood blue ripples, or infused for living, where tomorrow we
drag our beds: our flaming cauldrons, our minute potions, while spent so high
it comes to life!
…it
was good to meet, it was good to close doors, while it was better to open
widely: to bilk ourselves, to exhaust an entrance, while remembering those
intimate seconds: as coming easily, this thrill with many, where ours bore a
child: (but ponder shelves, this tremendous lie, where God ensured disaster):
or more to science, to feed with negatives, while positives felt secluded:
those itchy necks, our nerves at battles, our dreams in fury: this Precious
Moon, this flooded heart, to run so long it feels perfect: indeed, but a second
to flee, but a second to recluse, or but a second to seduce: our whiny friends,
seeking something worthy, where real life burns: those velvet carpets, those velvet
islands, this velvet disposition: while men are doubting, as questions are
hurled, where souls are hurling our brains: our beating chests, our naïve
fathers, our mothers where certain seconds seem unbearable: this insufferable
need, those potent feelings, while expecting abandonment: this daughter’s
legacy, those mental troves, as deeply discolored: at saddened miracles, to
flip into existence, after years of misguidance: our pillars rumbling, our guts
laughing, our eyes looking like three days of unrest: to passion with venom,
our stepfathers needing clarity, if but to sing, if but to dream, where drinks
felt good….
