…so
intimate, Love; so detached, Love; at passive anxieties, Love: evergreen tries,
numen sacrifice, while begging for normality: those cutting realities, our
bodies tussling, our activated curse: those days counting figs, those rustic,
rusty screws, our leaky faucets: such dripping frustration, such necessary
coldness, where two complain concerning indifferences: this saffron lake, those
saturnine eyes, our sacrificed glory: to need esteem, too crooked to receive
esteem, or too underdeveloped for esteem: our cages screaming, our debut met
with disdain, our records afore our success: those mental gates, our mental
climb, attempting at something intimate….
I
admired sentience; this demanding feature; our souls distrusting insanity: such
tender affinity, those aching clouds, so captured so disentangled: such
distraction, or pure fantasy, rewound to childhood feelings: our childish
overtures, that tentative future, or those myriad affections: erasing memories,
lost for immortality, where unsaid Love must know good lies: our butterfly
hearts, our remarks embedded, at dreams concerned with reach: as knowing for
love, while tender for confession, where a single thought becomes mushrooms:
our bold destiny, our crying emotion, our sails in opposite directions: to
laugh at fate, to receive fate, while fate gives but fate: those terrible
mornings, by terrible feelings, dripping into tragic neediness: our patches mirrored,
our mirrors as patches, in truth, we receive partial information.
…underneath
insanity, there’s this entrance, along a path knitting our return: that slight
imbalance, this slant upon reality, or this obsession with maybes: those
internal bees, those internal screams, those internal stingers: as leaking into
publicity, peering at concealed eyes, a bit too young for this grown-up battle:
as something ricochets, those deep rivers, this flowing into screens: that
cosmic stage, investigated by poets, or rewritten by novelists: that sheer
disenchantment, that steady hiding place, while with wand remodeling sanity:
our partial cries, our impartial eyes, or those kleptic appetites: ignoring
incessant ringing, or cleaving to occasional calls, while society reminds about
our status: this hellish sky-center, those rebuilt vases, where pedestals seem
apropos….
I
closed a chapter, but life is lingering, while other chapters appear
incomplete: I wrote a rejected sentence, dancing with wolverines, appearing to
self as a breathing cartoon: it churns sideways, it fires upon cores, at
estuary literature: our steep imbalance, while attracting moments, while at
deep wonder: those unchanging selves, an adolescent mentality, while compromise
has been tortured: at brown texture, at mahogany insanity, or witness to
misidentification: our blended shakes, our need for potassium, at inner
circles: those nights to reflection, our fairy godmother, where tears rolled
into pillows: our rippling guts, that ringing phone, or that damn fly: our dry
lips, our need for chapstick, or something to distract our train of thought.
…it
was gentle love, or rough abrasion, or plain confrontation: to frighten, Love,
to lose something fictional, while something intangible hooked realism: that place
in vestibules, that den of rooms, those intimate firebrands: at rejected cries,
while everso lucky, for some are with issues: this world of plenty, our inner
neediness, or our steep insecurities: at perfect moments, attempting perfect
cries, where familiarity requires nuance with dance: to wrestle this way,
fighting for our inheritance, longing against certain insanities: our bingeing
souls, needing something encompassing, as one used at sheer satisfaction….
