…float
irony, as deep in mire, our dearest emotion: this field flaming, those plums
roasting, our dreams becoming voices: this inching drive, this carnival affair,
so deep in mud—as liquid assassins, or running miracles, as memories arguing
with bars: this inner bipolar, those welted waves, this wheeling fool: as birth
would ruin, this, otherwise, perfection, our souls yearning for alpha: this
beginning circle, this high horizon, our veins enlove: if but with tyranny,
this agile creature, to remember her song: our valves, our petitions, our
losing jurisdiction: to fathom completely, this beast of burdens, but so affected
time has deteriorated: those festive eyes, those key-printed hands, those
stardust fantasies: our gale whispering, it speaks disaster, but passion roars:
that churning fire, as simmering with ease, to irrupt with violence: (that
noose, Love, so addicted to womb, as crying this body of carefree): to gnaw and
burn and die with galaxies: our skipping CD’s, our musky hearts, our musty
music: that quest, Love, this impish crow, as designating something terrific—as
but it hurts, that sagic cry, our curry with red peppers: to fail and begin, to
visit our living-room Spain, or shower in God’s Vista: at tragic tales, but
glued to television, while life became something crucial….
...such
soteriology, such writhing salvation, if but to find Jesus in her eyes: this
fair creature, those treacherous highlights, or one so gentle it begins to die:
such cruel fortune, or cruel men, looking and needing to designate Ms. Perfect:
this feral journey, our lightened waves, as passion creates a slew of messages:
our tethered brains, our serene chaos, such as sulfur clad in diamonds: that
precise shift, that roaming category, while sightless our days so low: to
thrust heaven, to abandon heaven, to curse with trophies: our barren insights,
as never so crucial, to arrange damages laughing at reality: this fretted
insanity, this inner trauma, to have become something mother despises: this
foolish creature, this know-all commander, while Love grew into tragic wings:
this listless dance, this longing advice, this length as gunning for texture:
our nights, Love, our mornings shifting, to touch, wince, and run—as dying for
culture, or pure sophistication, to imagine Love has decided: that order to
desist, those cries pilfering, our souls abandoned for a dear friend: as
imagined his life, this fair exchange, as long as Love is captive: our aching
bellies, this aching sky, our rains sudden in December: at itchy flesh, at
ruckus breath, or merely an abandoned prophet: if but to relive, if but to
rebuild, while rebels are destroyed….
…we adore
images, our inner projectiles, while Love is seriously wanting: our dreams in
wrappers, our candy with vinegar, our years rolling mischief: or pure
sensation, this threshed soul, this flailed soul: our days with passion, our
drops with cushion, our pillows with cotton: those whittled rocks, this
love-petroglyph, our clocks knocking at doors: this dormant infinity, this
dormant storm, if but to war for closure: our alleys filthy, our souls at
church, our minds purest those nuns: to come to bodies, as flying into brains, to
know names this reality of wars: at courses mangled, at first tries despised,
where it felt heaven to persevere: our unshod sentiments, our disheveled
emotion, our pits spewing forth glory: as Love sung, this Tao of content, while
something crude attempted existence: those hard-won attributes, those perfected
habits, while slipping into darkness: those wings with honey, this heaving
heart, this hex about roaring: such brazen wits, such behavioral walls, while
Love was want for burgundy: this tale by allure,
this mixture of romance, our days penchant for ironies: our planet cries,
those losing doubts, while stoic enough to glean satisfaction: our mythic
mystics, seated in fantasies, where reality has failed its vexation: at wailing
gates, wailing, therefore, abandoned to mystic harps….
