…terrible
beauty, to winnow minds, at lonely junctures: cursed for magic, or mystic
curses, held so tightly: to dream beauty, to meet dazzling, so surprised this
ocean: crying our screams, at carpet and ink, at miracles surfing: this pond of
passions, this pirate woman, our ships to seas: reading Bukowski, swimming
through mire, but a license to campfire: such covenant music, such magnet
intestines, to adore her scent: such intoxication, such wellic deepness, such
sin so sweet: a bit testy, a bit feisty, living alien existence: or pure fire,
thrust through magic, at tears washing Jesus: our morning hangover, our evening
movie, needing stimulants: our hinges crackling, our screws reversed, our
sunlight dim: as casual maniacs, so charged that hour, so impressed to anchor
impression: our magazine pianos, our clarinet skies, our saxophone dramatists:
those interior operas, those beige kisses, this uneasy conversation: as pure
adults, powering forward, fumbling an inner phone….
I censure writing—a bit too much, shifting sentences: to imagine, Love,
this enfold of wisdom, this interior brainiac, such pragmatic poetry: at facial
museums, of course, by grievance, nibbling poison vines: such deep illusion,
such recognized delusion, while probed, nonetheless: this paved existential,
this velvet light, to imagine mainly disappointment: as minds conjure images,
as Niles ruined Daphne, so intimate by disaster: those weeds, this too perfect
mistake, to curse as Job. We live
isolated, or intimate with a few, where many are quite promiscuous: it’s not an
issue—but maybe a condom, or maybe honesty, or maybe a real mirror: (lost for
passion, idealistic for passion, idyllic as a potential charmer for passion: by
purposed intention, this essence we loosen, this one and oh this one: a hint of
sarcasm, a sardonic glare, while needing Love, notwithstanding: at gentle
guitars, at church symphony, a bit towards religiosity science: either an
oxymoron, or a terrible paradox, or rapture’d for traveling deeper: a bluebird
chants, a season to love, admiring powerful triangles): we need belief, we need
people, while hard-pressed to discover pure innocence. …either a weeping bench, or a happy
feeling, where couches tend towards consciousness: heavenwardJ, if but for
gentility, this radical projection: our helium honor, our traced hexagrams, our
minor prose furious: to tap into, to conjure superstitions, those fantast
screams: if but to live, our interior marble, to feel such voltage: undoing
padlocks, pondering phantoms, at once such beauty in every woman: this Pisces
trait, this Virgo dignity, this Scorpion passion: to clash with Leo’s, to watch
Cancer’s, or a bit philosophical with Sagittarians’: such stubborn Taurus’, or
frightened in fires, to happen upon an intellectual Gemini: those Capricorns',
so open, so gifted: as time slips, those emphatic Aquarian’s, or such sulfuric
rage in Aries’: our last to arcs, those elegant Libra’s, those stressed by
essence: if but to live, a whistling teapot, a pictureless image: to give as
seasoned, or cultured deeply, such sweet ambitions…. I daydream and tug, where moons seem
indifferent and souls seem to unfold: this galaxy soul, this telic mystery,
this cosmological chase: those mind-marks, this interior arrow, this spiritual
target: to have needs, as similar in dynamics, while flung into reality: this
harsh, impartial friend, this curious creature, this lurking monster: to target
inconsistencies, to point towards flaws, while we run into our quarters: it
knocks upon doors, we ignore its pride, it laughs and pursues desperately: to
drift a flipped coin, to imagine softer tides, at dusky thoughts—at something
cringing, at deep corrections, while able and unwilling: this giving midnight,
those conclave nightmares, at stress and songbird: those watchful eyes,
immersed in strategies, to have found such allotment: at interior nectar,
racing by phantoms, addicted to silence: as a subtle touch, stimulates a subtle
smile, we seize with vanity our statutes: this space in essence, this moon upon
Neptune, this Star in Venus: so achy and sliced, so neuronic and alive, so at
Love with binoculars: these inward mechanics, rebuilding engines, and flushing
transmissions: while Love is dancing, and Love is striking, and Love is living.
