…interior
dialogue, this constant fire, those petals as toes—our deep wrenches, our
twists through diamonds, our liquid heart-castles—as foolish dreamers, catching
escapes, afloat this dynasty: at money palms, at treacherous demands, a bit too
cold for normal: this high ideal, our inner ligaments, at trenchant concerns:
to adore life, to adore love, while too defensive to experience change: those
tall oaks, this telic pomegranate, those purple, puce plums: to imagine
excitement, to perish in blues, at rivers aching concerns: those psychotic
features, as demanding clearance, while so under-siege: that tyrannical
personality, so calm for gentle, so alive and alert: our last enchilada, our
Louisiana pastas, our mental lasagna: such cheesy tacos, such radiant chili, or
so sore it felt good to love: this low enterprise, to ask for something, if but
this night to differentials: our silent mornings, stressed for coffee, while
negotiating inner chambers: our angry cries, our ignored freezers, where agony
senses it deliverance: at three beans, planted with expectation, to grow so
high into mutinous skies: those tasty lips, this sudden gush, those rushing
feelings: at dawn feeling lonely, at tears feeling closer, while tugged by
apropos dialogues….
I
explore naivety—those insidious venoms, or days to possessing a glamorous
woman: at deep friendship, devoid of confetti, and quite too tangible: this
liquid tale, this granny grit, this inner grandpa: our mothers knew, fleeing
chambers, at life pretty with pains: our guts churning, our bowels running, our
cheetahs watching: those near to gases, this flaming cigar, or Love so
imperfect it felt heaven: our darkness corrupted, our inner debauchery, our
inner dungeons: this filmed woman, this feel good loneliness, as so
enthralled—if but to panic, accursed and grinning, at something mystical: at
direct dialogue, seated at bias tribunals, while needing this person: as
something rare, in this familiar war, where some are tempered for longevity:
those wild eyes, that silent hypnoses, where certain tactics have ran their
existence: to want with dear life, to run with dear existence, to ache for
something at a given moment: at treacherous venom, pitted with snakes, our
climbing with tigers: our tatted bodies, our inner conviction, where Love felt
tetras.
Get
affection, Love, and Myomin, Love, and life, Love!—this stressed reality, this
adult atmosphere, those critical conclusions: as examined by self, or vetted by
self, while needing human dialogue: those beautiful souls, drawing rivers, or
suggesting something seemingly obvious—as missed and directed, this chasm of
addictions, those creatures listening to pains: such malaise and damage, such
pearls and wretchedness, while aiding something falling backwards: this faint
reality, this atypical insistence, or this fabulous paradox: at agony’s posts,
at tears but sleep, to awaken wiping existence: this field of maniacs, to find
our locations, where mother condemns such language: those mystic yogis, those sages hiding, this man distraught!
I
rarely speak, for watching persistence, or examining existence: our postmodern
madness, this ontological chalkboard, or this ontological woman: to imagine
with passion, this life of rubies, as insistent our broken days: our cosmology
gems, this teleological minx, to need something more than mothering: to have
that game, to chant existence, to flirt, agitate, and ignore: this sleazy
maniac, this domesticated mother, or powerful sophistication: those bubbling
instincts, this ruby red gnawing, our tendencies looking to destroy passion:
our shocked hearts, our treacherous panic, where angst generates something
endearing: at years with silence, observing our mothers, a bit towards
admiration: that constant screaming or nagging, and Love just pushes forward:
that kind/abrasive nature, those nurturing hands, or plain crazy with father.
