I
felt existence, yelling at circumstance, while adjusting to circumstance: those
chilly eyes, our chilly beds, at Love adored by forgiveness: this burgundy/blue
shiver, at deaths revving softy, in pictures admiring arm textures: at
something crucial, unable to locate it, while deep in disconnection: those
detached years, this haven for wisdom, while unable to thoroughly connect: our
crooked algae, our dreams sliced by lemons, this stingy enterprise: those
wounds, that pink marrow, those enigmatic lenses: those binoculars, those
crispy cries, our gut-phones laughing hysterically: those thoughtful psychs,
those intelligent spirits, at therapy while reserved: this inner need, this
needy lot, as humans must socialize: of course, a bit coarse, of course, a
galloping horse—at rhine and soul, at grime and life, at cemeteries digging
frantically: as lost at water, as found in jars, to unleash God’s Wizards: our
children watching, as infused by behavior, at Pa, but dearly distracted: this
fever, Love, this person, Love, our nightmares sailing by deserts: at islands
and tarantulas, at simplicity and spiders, at lizards communicating daily: or
puppet years, as paying dues, where real souls have died a thousand-lights:
such feral poison, and loving Love, and dying at mystic livers—to gnaw with
gods, to grind rhinestones, or pitch dice at algae: this slanted mentality,
this sight as different, where old friends have forgiven indelicacies: or more
to despising, or more to ambivalence, or more to becoming
serious-minded-gladiators.
It
becomes cartoons, watching Betty Boop, or Gordon Flash: It becomes prophecy,
listening to Time, kneeling at grandfather clocks: at soul-havens, or spirit-wars,
or wrestling mental beasts: at fair texture, or sinful eyes, aborted but
swimming: semen to concrete, a rose to life, as reaching stars: if but to love,
as but to funerals, to adore marked by unreality: at unphysical pictures, these
inner dictates, afire those wires we tiptoe—as cultic creatures, that
misperceived fig, while southerners are nibbling: those cryptic gazes, such
concentration, or too attuned to call, hurl: our imaginations, needing a
particular womb, to enter, dine, and fall away: such curt honesty, such
gridlock abandon, while wrestling this intimate beast: that winsome triumph, those
sensory diamonds, or life as one deep at blindness: our deaf mystics, our
palming instincts, at letters by tiles and glitter: such bloodshot nectar, such
fragrance free sex, or smelted for enlove spinning as ingratiated: at high
intimidation, our Naomi Campbell’s, those years to raising hell: if but those
thighs, or but our imagination, at packages hiding such secrets: but Love is
sweet, plus, too intelligent, plus, a sheer humanist: our angry lights, our
pubic diaries, our impolite muses: those days with patience, those cries with
illustrations, or souls unable and plain unable!
…something
kills, far less to destroy, in pure ambition: our curdled hearts, our blatant
hyenas, our tiger responses: at NARS a dream, at models a scream, while roaming
this lonely lot to poets: those fair risers, our fairer lights, courting Maria:
this Latin sacrifice, this Latin death, to absorb purgatory: our last rites,
our first surprise, headed back and choosing a uterus: this pleasurable family,
this cultivated genius, at days reading Rousseau: indeed, such realistic
thoughts, or palms to flesh, a tear to dirty, dusty skies: to review media, to
die at media, while sameness cuts as slicing core earth: those infamous
battles, to ponder this light, as daily to a particular essence: at black
courage, to ignite a young Douglass, at wonders for such affection: those times
to danger, those times to morals, or something misunderstood: our closet
behavior, that real person, while raising a family: where ashamed and moving,
while dead and planting deaths, while enlove and dearly apart: those small
wings, this large heart, as stung for ruined and dearly at resuscitation….
