…oh for bad brains, this electric carpet, this
physic device: to devise chaos, as Love models, tickling something incredible:
our core warzones, this fretting hint, our minds helping from a distance: our
plural webs, our plural guts, at webs feeling quite invigorated: such dear
alliance, such loss for games, where Love was green-purple: that innocent
monster, this fool with dialogues, as one sits awestruck: such intimate
spirits, such delightful dispositions, while Love was sick pushing
righteousness: our benighted moon, our benighted sun, while at hours so steep
people bear witness: this flaming countenance, this flaming yogi, or running
for sleeping upon this Buddhist: our bewitched minds, as one so mean, but hell
wasn’t nice: this gut-fire, this deep abyss, or this cloister of fences: our
churning ears, those verbal fireworks, this Greek orientation: at rites
laughing, at maniacal grins giggling, or wondering if friendship is possible
without sexual contact: this harp raging, those desperate parallels, this
physic mystic—at tears with Hindus, at fears with mirrors, to sense features
appearing to psychs: that long arm, that chiseled tattoo, or that second where
something un-normal seemed appropriate: at fair diamonds, those years to
perfection, to give in passion this latent hat: our tragic honeymoon, as never
a forgotten thought, roaming this Indian planisphere: such internal mercy, if
but to exist, while feeling close to dung: that wild inheritance, this dawn by
thieves, or serpent eyes carrying such compassion: those hazel blues, this
Jewish mystic, those high cables: as spent with liquor, if but to embrace,
while Love circled souls splaying intentions….
I dream in us, such ridiculous
pains, such carnival prayers—at delights in turquoise, or horrors in
time-zones, where we demand something unusual: such platonic nonsense, or
radical adhesiveness, while some are quite jaded: our silken butterflies, such
aesthetic appeal, while Love has overwhelmed this heart-chakra: to think his
name, to pull cords, to wonder about something grievous: our first discussion,
our last prayer, our guts at something we must explain: this furious creature,
this crush upon wings, while inquiring about crucial conditions: this fire
roaming, this channel whistling—your soul painting memories: while tracing
shadows, or running in shadows, to feel so dark while threshing a woman’s
light: this fair fool, this fairer dream, while years have demonstrated such
resistance: as watching Naïve dive, to wash as Naïve crumbles, while dear this
vice threaded in prose: this knitted insanity, those perfect few, while our
world is quite dubious: at green moons, at tragic lies, while no one is aware:
this fretted curse, those blue black crosses, those marvelous cries: to die
with soul, to rebuild our clouds, as one running into terrors: this churning
arc, this film at tortures, our lives roaming desert brains: to know by worth,
such bleeding blow, while reading Sara Teasdale.
…something like terror, or
teal-burgundy horrors, afforded one last color: at steep attention, this
physic-energized-encyclopedia: while raging in diamonds, or rolling through
gemstones, our mental trunks filled with rubies: this cedarchest, those mystic
memories, this present keep-heart: as running forever, such art with candy,
such death with lightning: those deep voids, as filled with mystery, while a
stranger effects subtle movements: our hallowed thoughts, our intricate
passages, or souls breaking cocoons: those crooning anxieties, to outsoar his
brains, while Love is purple seabed(s): our vague analyses, our pure hunches,
our dreams painted by meditations: this contemplative life, this feel with
threshes, this winnowing machine: as souls gunning, gauging thunder, to ride
that last vault: such fireballs, such intricate communication, where one
reasons that Love is hurting: a perfect stranger, a perfect fire, while reapers
cry….
