…make
us up, distinguish our children, and teach a swan: at broken islands, taking
courage, condemned to mood-swings: those terrible feelings, those in-house
spiders, too dislodged to kill it: as remote and running, this roof screaming,
this minx too embedded: our shattered charms, at mother’s first rehearsal, while
so steep our bodies are sinking…. I’m
difficult life, seated with flies, those tiny flappers: at guts ruined, at
thoughts rejuvenated, at passion recanting: this foolish believer, to need
something abused, to want for cries broken in parts: our crazed feelings, this
crazed woman, to fall asleep—those wheels spinning, those chimes as dogma, our
arms reaping grimly: if but to adore you, or but to bore you, where sudden upon
emotion: this wealth, this climb, those bold, relaxed eyes: our aches laughing,
our souls glowing, our passion so in destinies: at neighbors with questions, at
Love wrangling, to come so gently screaming most as more: this land of
villains, this sandbox with eating sands, or those dresses screaming, I’m alone: if but scientific proofs, or
emotion upon rafts, to dice so gently this mirage: our hell-bound guts, our
unstoppable legacies, where so many forgot pure sexuality: this safe-need, as
Love suffocates, but our rules are concrete: to have this vice, this
radicalized maniac, those longing limbs: otherwise, at deaths, at sheriffs, at
something too intangible to digest.
…we
run and gun passion, at tender satisfaction, to remorse a cabinet of
wrongdoing: this fabulous castle, this evening mistake, where things appear in
shadows: our children watching, our lives according to us, while fathers are
fully embarrassed: this premier existence, this mascara slipped into, while
Love abandoned something irresistible: those cutleries mincing, our celery with
creams, our aches with entanglements: if but to resist, or but to ponder, while
so many stories blur into insistence: this weekly charm, those deceased
emotions, while Love pursues particular choruses: at bleached flesh, at long extensions,
at glue and eyelashes and deaths: our sweet amore, our insistent cures, at film
city….
…moments
to exist, seconds to decide, or minutes to escape: our banished souls, so
inclusive, while reaching for something embedded: our prime forces, tugging at
resistance, or so disenchanted we persist upon facts: our plagued intestines,
our wines with grapes, our short hiatus: to scratch at meaning, to probe at black science, while so alert it aches to
dream: this vague, elusive missive, this shampooed carpet: as aches our necks,
carrying insanity, attempting at this conceptual consensus: our deep consents,
our feeble lights, where it felt for goodness:
our minds shunning, our hearts vibrant, our bodies gravitating—at something
reckless, this anti-conformist, or this person so in need of acceptance….
I
come to you—laughing at us, while friendly enough to solicit a smile: those
charming armors, those long lived anxieties, or grandmother’s wit: at tyranny
concerns, at relaxed Jaws of Life, so condemned it’s hard to resume—this
passion by animals, this vex in veins, or those few persons so alarming: our
casual heights, our darkened beliefs, where some realize pure deception: this
hanging leaf, while gutted by questions, to deviate from something considered
honest: but yours are facts, and yours is altruism, where one would never
deceive you: this challenge in lives, this game by controllers, to need
submission…by means stagnant, or static, while one sees this in self: this
comfortable game, this insistent reality, where we realize a certain
electricity—or crumbled paper, carrying our wishes, at ropes giggling—this sin
in universals, this whisper as winning, at this promise that feels like a
mistake.
