…it
stars in dreams, this remote person, this flamboyant sufferer: those stains as
liquid, our grannies pretending: our guts laughing, our mothers dying, at
keepsake frustrations: to invert pain, as angry as hell, where it’s difficult
to relate: our soldier team, our soldier bowels, at warriors eye to thrust:
those crazed men, those large eyes, that inner spirit—as liquidating values, or
demented with flavor, our psychotic features: this held reality, those
irrational sensories, to request total obedience: this feel good volume, this
soundless restriction, our guts fueled by revelries: our liquor with walnuts,
our popcorn with laughs, at Love aching a few bruises: those lying lips, this
lying feeling, while tugged for pulled and trying harder: if but to capture, if
but to sing, if but those ruby red intestines: at television giggling, at
internets longing, while Love is pining for raw, exaggerated, traumatizing,
emphatic chemistry: indeed, a straight fool, this Kingdom of dues, while art
became some sort of outlet: those outstanding buildings, this inner
architecture, at lovemaking so distant she awoke to those years: our rites, our
damages, this fretted mentality: at anguish with nonchalance, at Love with
anger, while a man is forced to make it right: that old lover, those old
graves, as one requested a pillow: thitherto, those gorgeous features, this baffling
queen, at something too good for existence: those hats, those huts, this inner
Rabbi: at tears feeling goodness, at remorse and cursed, or something so
dramatic it couldn’t be fixed: moreover, a scream, those orgasmic consequences,
to find climatic satisfaction: at rent and ruins, at rolls and rules, at rights
and revelation: our hopes as hopeless, our minds as material, our spirits as
there upon tables: to sense it dancing, to witness it chancing, while Love
adored our outbursts….
…a
fair fight, as deadly science, as glassy eyes: those ribs so close, those
breasts as so dear, our minds needing your passion: to regret those years, as
confounded by demons, if but we met so earlier: this ruined feeling, this
revived feeling, this reckless havoc: to push a bit further, and nevermore this
ache, while agony bent reality: this mentor, this inner psychologist, as
depending upon conscience: to sprint to Vegas, this wild wedding, this tawdry
affair: to renew vows, spent in Europe, seated upon holy steps: to value
trauma, to release motives, to thrust, yank, bite and die: if but reality, if
but thrown, to write manuscripts, to engage prose, to become novellas: as
rented spectators, or valued realists, where nuns are paying close attention:
that slight vibration, that screaming undulation, those coquettish eyes: this
sick fool, at rules with disgusts, so rubric it has become pathetic: to charm
as corporate, where Love is apostolic, while both are vying for charisma: those
jogging legs, those chiseled arms, those sensitive relations: as strong and
stationed, or soft and stringent, while reality is interchangeable: those
memory archives, those sexual experiences, to look for sanity and pass out….
…it
becomes self-deception, it becomes pure fantasy, to possess nothing to settle
upon: but reality wails, she speaks about probability, where most humans are
passionate: this wild-eyed soul, this fabulous lover, this timid, vulnerable,
audacious warrior: our battlefields, our passive aggression, our lime green
seas: this winning while losing, this something antagonizing, this mental
protagonist: our guts knitted, our bodies vibrating, our energy so loud priests
are praying: that psychical nightcall, that sexual nightmare, to go so deep
into a human brain: as men trying harder, as women aggressively submissive,
while spirits participate at domination: our lying lips, our lying feelings,
while it was nice to perish: at terrible deaths, to confess something colorful,
where reality seems foolish….
