...we
die with glory, as rising passions, spaced for ruined: that old child, those
damaged morals, our brains loving Jesus: our mother’s religion, our father’s hustle,
this pastime for diligence: at angst with pressure, at souls with distance,
where Love was want to adventure: this sluggish nature, this baffled reality,
at pains to dismiss you: this radiant war, our contours glowing, our minds
feeling existence: at shadowed wines, or clever cigars, where favor grins while
chasing—aloft a dungeon, in tears laughing, or mocked for father: those slick
ruses, those bodily cruises, or bruises unexplained: those diamond testers,
this Neutrogena, or perfume purchased by riddles: that blue lake, this inner
curse, to afford apparitions: at purgatory, at Christ, or praying through
Mary—our backwards glory, this segue, this backdoor: at nuns with grace, at
priests negotiating, at Bishops sensing danger: those liquid grapes, this
liquid feline, those remarkable passions: as dying for Love, while confused by
Love, where days prove physical disasters: to cut left, while tugged dearly, as
scarred for elevation: to feel a volt, while crying that volt, where Love
agonized for breakage: this thin agenda, this black moon, as loved for
sprinting to possess three children: our cherished deaths, our brightened eyes,
where intestines imploded while escaping to havens: those wild flowers, this
trenchant garden, those loud but silent gestures….
I
sip with vengeance; I laugh over tears; I feel normal but lying to Jesus: this
inner movie, this tragic reality, this psych popping up at seconds: that inner living-room,
this crazy furniture, as speaking about brains: at Europe watching, at Ethiopia
addicted, at certain words remembering our language: such eczema, this dry,
itchy flesh, as one dearly neurotic: this psychopath, those features giggling,
this woman seeming indifferent: to ingratiate feathers, to become feathers, or
to need a certain level of intimacy: our eyes running, our bodies stagnant, our
minds sensing apathies: this logician land, this terrible future, our Hispanics
at true wars: our daughters wheezing, our grains gutted, this board threshing
profanity: our friends dying, or losing interests, while it gets lonely: this mystic
wave, this mystic cave, to need a certain category: if but to exist, our
swollen livers, our remarkable guts: this mental swan, as something different,
our souls enslaved: but hell to doting, while doting, nonetheless, or at
castles claiming Machiavelli—this tale reborn, this failing as failure, those
cries as reaching insanity: our cursed surprises, our surprised captures, our
days to gunning while feeling inadequate: those Proverbs, as pure deliverance,
where souls are want for Wisdom: at blunted days, at bacon memories, or this
woman too bold for holiness: as needing glow-lights, or something to treasure,
to place Love upon pedestals: as crazed men, or footprints screaming, or dying
to love while deeply disgraced.
It
was easy to crawl; It was easy to die; but living is such struggle: those
bubbling lights, this tragic bleeding, to love afraid to confess: this breached
existence, this breached affair, this boiling dishonesty: to feel so good, to
crave more lightning, while victims are becoming flat: this man to games, this
inherited ghetto, but life is unfair: indeed, that bleeding heart, this inner
cat-gore, while Love is content with passing spoiled: and scabs upon flesh,
dynasties ruined, while Love laughs upon laughter: but hell to dying, as hell for
living, while courted by ghosts: that fake ass yawn, this fake ass reply, while
facts where courted from fiction: this inner Freudian, this inner Jungian, or
those taking literature quite seriously: at creative minds, at Love is spirit,
while forced to look at prettier women: this man at heights, this furious
faculty, those tendentious exercises: while mystic foot to grain, or cultic
brain to foot, while confused, confounded, and drifting into lunacies.
