I
stared while longing, at deep surprises, this lonely faculty: that empty space,
to archive a dungeon, while peering into riches: those few days, those few
spectaculars, to resist that incredible pace: our black havens, our dark
cities, or yoga ten minutes before sunrise: while so concerned, considering a
stranger, where messages seem to invoke—this inner storage, this inner
storehouse, to gallop realizing futility: this murky lane, those murky
antennas, while burgundy robes seem to explode: at tension survival, to die
with grace, as Love is at mindless Love: those deep suspicions, those robotic
responses, to sudden at this pause: our elevation, our aesthetics, our
trenchant behavior—to die forever, as never such goodness, while empty this
curse by Existence: at desert moons, at jasmine sunshine, while deep at mental
muscles. I need you, to revolve you,
to leave you: I ache you, to revolve you, to return to you: this inner
sickness, this sickle blight, this surgery succession: if but one trillion, if
but every personality, if but our first kiss: running for closure, sniffing
cologne, at deep dark memories: those perfect parents, those palatial castles,
this interior penitence: moreover, this wretched blessing, this wretched
happiness, this existential existence: if but to exhale, to sip gin, to
remember ice: over six cigars, our facial muscles, our redeemed nothingness: to tell for secrets, our
ladies listening, men need this particular us: as cussing and raving, this
feeling appetite, those deep dark mentalities: as Love soothes madness, this
sick, fragile, intimate physique—to rage at airs, to keep to disguises, to
reform for one so lethal: at secretaries laughing, at psychs rigid, at
professors running: or mystic crazy, laid in affection, while gunning for
reloading aiming for something crucial: those bold charms, this infinite beer,
while slight with headaches: our beige crosses, our turquoise ankhs, at
Egyptians giggling early morning. I
died today; I saw a child; I thought to curly bangs: this fool at mountains, grazing
at clever seas, if redeemed for clearance: that soldier graduate, that warrior
fire, as born to suffer for clearance: our solemn aches, our last perfume,
Love, or this recurrent atmosphere: those similar problems, those similar
responses, those similar excuses: to wait for Love, or to hold secrets, while
tugged between lovers: as escaping but dreary, or re-talented but weary, as now
we watch our Love: that sick music, those explosive nightmares, those sick,
psychotic charms—our brains screaming at indifference: those maroon whales, our
precious garlands, while splayed and devilish peering into our last crush: that
blank symphony, that lively orchestra, at tyranny if but to re-enchant
something deceased. …it becomes tipsy, it lives in
portals, it dies as living sprinting into silence: our remarkable frustration,
to ask for solace, if but this Love so sick for us: that paper boat, to float
so far, as prior to sinking: our ruby green grass, this infinite aye-aye-cat,
if but to relive as stung seeking passion: this lot to him, this enthralled by
him, while a fool wastes years attempting to become him: that sick science,
this sick avalanche, or Love crazed enough to rekindle something resuscitated: our romantic
death, our re-filmed tragedy, while manics clear courses for maladies: indeed,
so psychotic with passion, and so intimate with passion, where Love needed
something dying daily: if but for Love, if but for sickness, if but to share
someone that guts our souls…. …in
tears and suffering, so intimate this dynasty, as afflicting myriad castles:
our blight with panic, our memoirs with terror, our cries with short delays: at
bold devastations, at tragic loses, to look upon Love with credulous existence:
those cinema eyes, those otiose declines, while tendencies are rich with
infinity: our dying hearts, our lucrative inversions, to find Love has loved
for millennia: that ruthless seed, this ruthless friend, those ruthless
replies: at guts and tyranny, at chicken and wings, or so sauced for glory it
rises: our brown caves, our jasper petroglyphs, while sunk into something as
never it lived: those trenchant years, this occasional flutter, or dreams
splintered and harvested….
