…long
to his brains, chiseled and dying, at love forbidden—this alley dog, this
ruptured maniac, at deep concerns: this daughter war, those last rites, sewing
his inheritance: as sewn inward, this crosswise bonnet, those torrid
dreadlocks: this horn blazing, those guts filleted, or this sad ass song—to tug
corners, this inner Carpenter, our Pauline Tents: as needing understanding,
while attempting at life, this myriad of faucets: to choose wisely, those
delicate frames, those delicate arms, those long-lasting legs: our curt
abilities, this film remedy, our Jesus at 12 steps: indeed, with blasphemy, or
relic antiques, our daughters collecting trinkets: our jewelry boxes, our first
true Love, while sanding our existence: those penchant mystics, this penchant
make-believe, while looking at our Love: to need something new, this unknown
newness, but known, nonetheless: thither, a storm, and thither, our guts, and
thither, our moods: at inner piano, at deep clarinets, while raging this
saxophone: that mental tinge, slanted towards deaths, while alive and feeling
felicity: this mood lie, this mood curse, as gutted pleading forgiveness: this
broken light, those hellish fumes, at Aunty wiping a cursed tear: these fuels
leaking, this room filled by gases, as melic, melodic maniacs: if but that
session, those early years, to awaken an insensitive spirit: this erratic keel,
those erratic tales, while Love appeared a bit elated—those casual nuances,
this fire as controlled, where granny met her son: our blood/blue elixirs, this
inn macabre, or those fierce psychological macaques: at garbage like rubies, at
rubies like garbage, to know this painful instinct: as dying too young, alive
this generation, but broken his intestines: at red/green daughters, alike to
permanence, at fraud with features: this hell and dying, this dying and flying,
this furious ass loser—to create music, this winner those charms, at lights
realizing tragic affairs: that mystic burst, this feudal family, while Naïve
plays the blacksheep: indeed to poets, reading through feelings, as some are
purely scientific: this trenchant envy, to need that talent, to need this
woman: our tales unsold, our lives as rodeos, where Love appeared asking
questions: those dusky rivers, this gambol about Love, while Love is feeling
inadequate: as Niles with Daphne, or Asians with Whites, where too much lather
afflicts reality: to need something raw, something cultured, or something
interchangeable: that mystic rush, our bodies screaming, our demons fleeing
intensities: thither, at wars, to own a human, while so secure reality
devastates: this trenchant force, this courageous mountain, at Moses blinking
into eyes: wither, we cry, wither, we die, as resurrecting livid with
excitement: our inner mentals, our outer guts, to flinch, move and crush our
falls….
…those
kirtles, Love, our girt bowels, our inner madrigal: this flimsy flute, this
radiant guitar, at organs speaking in French: our new countries, that Sibyl
woman, or this irregular snare, at pits communicating with gravel: such rushing
seawater, such swift abeyance, or this lukewarm atmosphere: to thrust into, to
remove, therefrom, at hospitals at blood-work: indeed, to penitence, while at
something like love, where something addictive passes judgment: our pious
evidence, to exclaim something rawer, while years crashed against altars: this
hellish qualm, at deep fires, to savor something those years: while collecting
scuts, or rebuilding ladders, while something remains in membrance: those
frontal lobes, this forest puzzle, at tetras with souls: our chessboard, to
whisk on by, at something terrible and plain heinous: but more to hells, as
closer to heavens, while Love aborted our last prospective: indeed, so rosy,
such a tulip, or this exotic flower: to giggle while running, this place for
miracles, where one is anti-knowledge: at one atoning, those spotless glasses,
those pure shelters: at God’s eyes, filled with contempt, and lying with
courage: such beliefs, or this casual jinx, while gunning for rustic minds….
