…those
doors are locked, ghosts are creeping internally, phantasms are
screaming…. I think about phantoms, I
respond to love, I sing a song about Pinocchio: this torn ambition, this
floored essence, or something too abrasive, dissociative, and ambivalent women:
those gentle blankets, along tender curses, so lost, or such jeopardy with
love: this blue phantasm, this girth with fire, or minds so tipsy with florescence:
those lights bleeding, this reversed torment, or agonizing over being at doors:
this playful hallway, this cutting incision, or raving at rage over fury: those
dangerous kegs, this remorseful feeling, at families seriously reversing rolls:
this arc master, this ink slave, those swans sensing something incorrigible:
but long to me, this path in me, at romantic terror: so disconnected, this zoo
of minions, while true death has become black and white: this perfect sexual,
this imperfect person, our souls, our guts, our intestines: if but to flee,
running into dungeons, so playful with King Ghost: this interior essence, this
gleeful nightmare, as assumed as a person abnormal: at gutty insulation, or
removed from passion, at cutlery so intensely dismissive: those auburn
rainbows, this leaf upon a shadow, or so intense leaking into sanity: those
years at make-believe, those tiles your face, this deranged drained dragon: at
closet emotion, or sky draperies, so captured by internal violence….
…so
much sunshine, so many doors, so many unlocked entrances: our trembling bodies,
our pumping hearts, so spacial, so concerned: to possess intoxication, to have
souls weary, to dine afore deaths: our miracle minds, stressed for release, at
something seemingly connected: our detached makeup, our bodies needing
instruction, therewith, to have traveled too far: as exhausted creatures,
filming our responses, our soul-cameras overheating: to journey with tension,
to expend exhaustion, to sit in fluids: our shaky limbs, our moving pulsation,
our agonies reporting for dictation: if but removed, by this planet Neptune, or
running into calm dungeons: our exploding minds, our lakes at Eternity, our
resurrection at baptism….
…we
outwit ourselves, a great deal of training, to actually halt a thought: for
though they pause, vibration lingers, plus, this uncanny presence generated by
thoughts: those intimate locations, our ingestion acidic undulations, such
courage to endure its course: this class of impasses, while yearning for
freedom, as arriving at intervals: those vernal pastures, these darkened rooms,
those enlightened eras: to have such fire, to remain so balanced, while
noticing subtle processes: so impatient at times, smirking at interior
movements, seemingly preoccupied: (a thought operates, laying attributes to
humans, while taken as absolute knowledge: so distant from self, so intimate
with self, so detoured by suddenly into self: that old claim, as only knowing
self, while unsure if self exists: complete conundrum, so spacial at returns,
so invested in seduction): that crazed participant, our dramatists laughing,
our souls agonizing over feelings….
…something
moves interior, thereto, our motivation, at once, haunted unto stagnation: our
counseled waves, at silence with terrors, pulling into our shells: those
make-believe havens, at life so distantly, so intimate with trepidation: our
reasons for nonparticipation, our souls vibrating our interests, where
reminders appear: those geese un-attentive, until closeness, such as captured
by proximity: thereat, our true concerns, while chastising inclinations: our
behaved souls, at once, a wildly creature, while poured into domestication: if
but to fly, as some lay claims, fretted by social constructs: but life becomes
fire, where we rarely converse, where our passion is designed for flame….
