…one
so gently, one so designed, to possess miles of courage: as deleted in shadows,
or pleated in cores, while arranged and dying softly: such intimate attraction,
this innocent confidant, while abrasive concerning atmospheres: our blackened
minds, our dark marshes, our wilderness of apes: those reluctant arts, as
spaced by gravel, at something so abstract it appears concrete: those movies at
nine, those centerfold models, or this tale of time so chaste: our moving
hearts, singing as sung about, while women are appearing daily: such robust
hips, such talkative thighs, as a man resorts to shamans in his thoughts: those
shapely lakes, this endless scent, those perfected arms: to dine with justice,
to argue with justice, to wrangle so close to affairs with justice: those
evening captures, those concubine queens, or one wife and all it entails: if
but our sepulchers, if but our dreams, to arise after months at rest: this
green island, at such elasticity, while reamed by concerns: those gray masks,
this scythe whining, so charged by inevitability….
…it
kills me, pained, alive and dying, fielded in pure survival: to see us living,
to sense multiple jails, at chow-hall: those rose-tips, those rosehips, those
tyranny anklets—at music escaping, if but those seconds, at hands-on
sacrifices: this chill I spoke, this woman so alert, to need that for self:
those cagey eyes, that cagey brain, those spheres looking into insanity: at
pure deaths, while making love, to climax and push away: this Man’s World, this Woman’s Gravity, to
need something exclusively ours: this perfect capture, this inverted
caricature, such blue lighted insurance: those Noah days, this Gideon charm, at
tyrannies pleading with Joshua: our blood green disease, our purple red
elixirs, at justice laughing at irony: those women, so seductive, to realize
high class society: at years of training, at down-call legacies, while typing
this existence: this precious everything, this song undergirded, our loins
bleeding cryptic insanity: those pale complexions, or ocean browns, at
something too chocolate to receive a hearing: this curse at laws, our draconian
passions, at Germany peering at something passionate: this Russian art, this
peculiar scholastic, those fair creatures: to die forever, our plans shot to
hells, at deliverance chuckling over Our Eucharist….
I
adored you early, so familiar and sick, so enlove and blotted: to passion as
death, to fuel as kef, one last tick, one last breath: to child my mind, to
adult my spirit, where loving was so difficult: to ignore mud, to exalt
heinous, where possession was always out of reach: this film replaying, our
Isley’s blazing, if but this time to exist with deaths: those womb treatments,
this flex and tug, at times so dearly demented: if but to exist, if but to die,
at Love agonizing gently: our bellies speaking, over eighty children, so sick
it felt behaved: those deadly pushes, this infinite tulip, those red
blossoms—as cried profanity, our lyric with pain, our tales with omissions:
this life for naivety, this tragedy for innocence, to realize, It takes a great deal: our women
churned-out, our men turned-out, while both are playing soul-harps: to perish
gently, to return with bass, to thump, perform, and abase inclinations: this
fair death, this fairer resurrection, this black blue moon.
..we
come to closure, this exotic machine, this emphatic lover, at core frustration,
to decipher parenthood, while Love appeared so charmed: this vessel at Rome,
this capital at Europe, this voyager at Africa: this hybrid inclination, those
hybrid insights, at miracles claiming perfection: this blind maniac, this blind
fool, if but to possess for half a second: as some are possessed, as some
alluring, to wish for ultimate desecration….
