I
suspect life, or snakiest balance, a cigar, a vat, and deep intuition: to grin
while shaky, to sin while thankful, or repent as last in line: this chocolate
dove, this vanilla wafer, at Asia seated in pills: those roses, this tulip,
those rainbow personalities: to carry our portion, as steep and alone, where
mother offered a raft: this blue blazer, those suede shirts, while sweating in
ninety degree sulfur: our blurred daisies, those swanic manifests, at concerns
but hassled: this leaping maniac, those purple hurdles, this kangaroo boxing
match: at Love a bit green, where Love was turned out, as but a second to
disappear: such raw gravel, such Jesus lizards, or bashed for threatened and
seeking carnivals: those cartoon movies, this Roger Rabbit, at trees baptized:
this old sinner, this beginning newness, as cut for thrown asunder: our blunt
films, this porn star, as life becomes genitalia: if but a second, to touch a
soul, we chase forever for that selfsame second. I reappear, a pack of inhibitions,
attempting something grandeur: those rose red riots, this beige blue bandage,
at terror traipsing into tragedy: (alas, and frightened, for mother sees
emotion: this hard won discipline, this hardcore warfare, while casualties
despise disease: to hate a man sailing, to pure disgusts bleeding, at this
tragic heart: such radiant rails, such rapid rages, to die rearranged and
reviewed: this hate love, this thread void of threads, or flowers clanging by
clouds: this erased soul, a pill a day, while mother pictured a sleeping angel:
our seats bathed, our fathers devoid of feelings, while mother points to her
successes: this tale concerning lights, as pictured by its artists, where
something seems uncertain: those turquoise presents, this make-believe life,
but alignment seems highly important: to know for treachery, to know for
whoredom, where something perfect loses its binoculars: at rivers in history, at
blackness in reality, while sensing this systematic war-call: our daughters
exposed, this bong filthy, this addict selling a house filled with profanity:
to give lenience, if but to achieve a friend, while cops lurk and feeling
disrespectful: indeed, this goblet leaking, this hobbit limping, while this
leprechaun laughs needing me gold): nonetheless,
to love is to cherish, this ideal in fathers, this mystery in revenge: our trespasses,
our transgressions, our energies becoming ghosts: to flee traffic, to become
acrobatic, at chains, cuffs, and fragrance: if but your smile, if but this lie,
while daughters feel good by quickness: at gramps shifting, at memories
surfing, at granny filled with music: this calm dead-man, this living miracle,
or this game where we seek control: as but to invest, as but to take for
granted, as but cheating and laughing: this jaded view, this last mistake,
while curious about something beautiful.
I respond rarely; I cry a wolf-wing; I respond daily: as without
answers, becoming answers, while flying and floating and furious: those days at
memories, those crooning delights, or this crooked straight-faced musician: to
re-impress, to bathe in valleys, or roaming this galaxy: our fuming blues, our
buffing islands, our deep effects: while changing purposes, our churning
flames, to engulf for engulfed and at water—those yellow stations, to find with
ease, this man losing his whistle: at tire tracks, at tragic tyranny, or so
terrific time has relayed perfection: our lives with sands, our treasures with
Egypt, while certain truths have been buried. …look at us, filthy and degraded, running
and returning: this perfect, bull-sighted image, but Love is fury infatuated:
to die and eject, to puff and feel something, while seams unlace and speak in
terrible passions: that so-so essence, if but to become that woman, where
reality fails to insist: our matter with irony, our satire stinging, while
words have come back to haunt: this foolish thinker, this easy deception, as
one becomes resentful: as hating dearly, one for photographs, to allow hell
such free reign: our gutty rawness, our daughters scribbling mentally, where
something fake has lost its coarseness: at streams angry, by nothing but self,
to hate one for permitting such treachery—while seated so closely vomit is
trickling…!
