…at
low resonance, at high intensity, to die with insistence: afflatus scars, agony
streaming, or pertinent concerns: our kleptic gears, this internal war, our
brains heavy: to rest with Christ, to redeem in Christ, to become a bit more
conservative: if but our glues, if but our gravel, where mother would
sacrifice—this moody instinct, those chiseled whereabouts, as to glisten
unknowingly: thereto, those incredible portraits, as walking our garden, to
simmer in violet attraction: while losing sanity, this gradual elevator, where
Love was increasingly perfect: our brains and perceptions, our hungry
sentimentalities, while starving for perfect affection: this need to pull, this
tug as grinning, or days trekking around pure church: at terrible vows,
blackmail, therein, and feeling crucified: but life is succession, and Love is
bruised, and adoration becomes fretting: if but to resurrect, if but this
mystic, while feeling abandoned six months later: those reveled insanities,
this woman his brains, this crunch as devastating insanity: at culture
integrity, to lose infinity, where art became lasciviousness: those bold
remnants, this seashore confidentiality, or dolphins becoming depressed…. I
thought about love—this fuel in souls, as needing its validation: to speak it
plainly, our days at infatuation, to wonder if concrete is necessary for
affectionate claims: at mercy with scales, at Jerusalem with sacrifice, at
Judah with warfare: those miracle palms, those inner melees, or casual
concerning something excruciating: those bold gestures, that fabulous
investigation, to realize that he might be a good person: against our desires,
as enthralled with frequencies, as dying for something repulsive but
attracting: our gremlin appetites, our metamorphous grins, our last Beyoncè: or
tales to dungeons, this need to exist, at three days vomiting: or cursed for
gunning, to need certain realities, while tugged by new candidates: those
remote islands, at private thoughts, where everything is pseudo-perfect:
indeed, a tale sold, a measure calculated, a soul deep in throws: to die with
Love, to become sentenced by Love, while imagined as imperfect beauty: those
plain gestures, those trenchant gestures, or flesh seeming succulent. I
couldn’t sense life, afraid to lose life, looking for ruined abandoned to life:
those incredible legs, this incredible future, if but to sacrifice for
injustice: those remarkable fools, this remarkable need, if but to entertain:
our first vulture, this inverted outcome, those suppressible tears: that deep
cry, that mental ulcer, those extravagant charms: while running to havoc,
infused by havoc, and cursed for havoc: indeed, this particular delicacy, while
reasoned as ruined prior to existence, if but to embark cut through and
hysterical: our graves, Love, this swan, Love, or cringing casually awaiting
impossible miracles: at guts, Lord, and typing, Lord, where thoughts drift into
preparations: eyes burning, screens glaring, at trenchant planetariums: our
deep sensations, moved but stillness, at pictures something fierce at
existence: to have platitudes, to renegotiate platitudes, to speak from soul to
embarrassment: this lot of warriors, this inner vicissitude, at delicate
crosswalks. We can’t presume it, this
interior life, as indicative of all creatures: our daily sights, to meet one so
rude and indecisive about pure resistance: as charged to assist, but honor
isn’t listening, and honor feels privileged to disrespect at leisure: this deep
conflict, to ruin everything—while pleading victims to swear by praise: those
same results, this similar behavior, while gutted and feeling confused: indeed,
as preaching to souls, this choir yawning, our rites proving our intention: at
music with bass, at brass with helium, or running for blasted and concerned
deeply: to flicker mysticism, to adore mysticism, while removed from mysticism:
this dying legacy, this living majesty, if but to core this mystic war: our
club insanity, our privileged stars, as something afar redeemed in praises:
this laudable woman, this trenchant need, while some are deadly honest: to hold
this lot, to adore this lot, incapable of keeping this lot: our deep
inadequacy, our mental sensorium, our kangaroo pouch: as living in goodness,
after years with demons, after years intoxicated: those redeemed creatures,
with hell gunning shadows, while conjuring St. Frances!
