I assume
to you, those features those elements, as men dying, if but a song, adrift our
twilight hours: I gut amid floors, spaced and psychotic, at Love with
innocence: to lose mother, to dread this space, at father a last calling: our
treacheries, our mail box, our coffee with turmoil: this sister laughing, as dying
in goodness, to flee with deliberate aches: our souls floating, this cloud of
Christians, or dark delusions: to meet by chance, frantic and abased, as
reading true intentions: those bold rivers, those climbing maniacs, at Love
seated in fluid tyrannies: to rapture aloud, to cry for vengeance, as pantomime
vampires: our ghostly dungeons, our phantom room, those burgundy teabags: thither,
a curse, looking at light brown eyes, cut for destroyed: to slam gin, to hanker
over cigars, or embarrassed for granny: such disapproval, such hypocrites, such
loveable souls: our seven by nine, this frigid freezer, amongst something
heinous: this small world, as dreaded importance, while looking at white glory:
insofar, a dead man, attempting literature, as sliced through with immediacies:
our cold bowels, our in-house bugs, our Raid with anxieties.
…at
shrimps and fantasy, this fire mobile, this cellular spirit: at guts ringing,
at minds splattered, as souls lapping up wisdom: those thighs, those calves,
this maniac fool: at thoughts alone, at home alone, and staring at windowpanes:
this mantel, those graves, to resurrect and die: that instant second, those
instant moments, to awaken gazing at Jesus: that soft palm, those soft eyes,
this soft affection: at pure illusion, captive by manic essence, at memories
sensing inner screaming: at tests and deaths, at music and streets, at Love
lying to get away: thither, your mind, and, thither, your soul, and thither,
this silent machine: if but to discussion, looking into ceilings, abused with
needing deaths: this cursed lover, this municipal court, at lawyers feeling
insanity: those brain waves, this salad about pain, to realize something
unappealing: but what to viciousness, and what to needing viciousness, while
Love examines probability: this Lamborghini empire, this blood/blue passion, at
Yahweh speaking insanity: our miles running, to meet that face, while aches
became sentimentality: at curious concerns, to apologize to him, but Love
seemed as medicine: those features, so alluring, to meet with something
balanced—but dearly imbalanced: such foolish worship, to be inside a maniac, to
cut with silence laughing hysterically: that small death, this climatic shiver,
to return to one appearing totally normal….
