…we
exude mercy, we charm France, we submit mutually: as but this vice, as but this
curse, while arranged in coffins: our gothic delights, those fair, beautiful,
glamorized maniacs: wearing nothing, or so untamed, where a man needs humility:
or torn this creature, as humble as witches, fevered so long it exacerbates
problems: such rough language, but never so gorgeous, if ever a second for
exaggeration: those freshet eyes, that merciless tongue, those clad
death-prints….
I
feel churns, this black essence, this perfect imperfection: so ensouled, so
mesmerized, as touching ritual shades: at shadow havens, drugged with liquor,
or too sober to concentrate: this tool for manifests, this library human, at
secretaries, lawyers, doctors, and ghetto dynamite: those tatted ankles, that
tattooed name, as meant so little at point zenith: those kernel seconds, this
fleece of impatience, or men seduced by mother’s essence: our flamed bodies,
popping Adrenal Health, floored for old and dancing: that foul language,
cursing Love to heaven, as called so many dog names: pulling, yanking, biting,
flowing, laughing, and argumentative: such comfort, this person to relations,
while men set pace three days in: to wimble her thoughts, to nibble her soul,
to reverse a bit distant this spirit: our photographed planets, our
stenographer women, those interior typists: alas, something his brains, this
deathless, death increased, mental fire: at correlations, at steep,
interrogated, and relaxed fountains: those brushes, this paint, our ceiling
cringing: at silence, so incredibly humble, or realizing we are want to master
women.
…we
gleam passion, we lean on essence, our interior cues are quite without notice:
a man loves mother, another hates mother, and both have wives exactly like
mother: or a man is conscious, as never for mother, married to a woman such
existence—if but to flee, or but to fly, or but something so left field we feel
uneasy: needing mother’s venom, needing this mental exchange, if but to grab,
devastate, and fall so addictedly our wheezing increases at intervals: an all
day session, an all night argument, while too charged to avoid one last round:
this complete fool, this mathematic equation, at numbers respelling meaning:
indeed, to perish, so dearly at levels, while kissing became some atypical,
magnetic, master’s device….
Love
is designed and destined and deteriorating: Love is rich and radiant and
radicalized: Love is physic flame and alchemy and this irresistible gift: Love
is anti-religion and Love is for religion and Love is both faced in atheism and
faith: this reckless art, this structured art, while Love advances while
retreating: our fair examples, our fairer cries, so experienced, so mystic: our
last opus, our bodies detached, or so sewn in pieces it’s hard to exist: those
Monroe escapades, that Lothario liar, or something created right here in
California: so eager to persuade, so eager to listen, so at needs to believe:
but such a secret, so marvelous that touch, so indebted our functioning
psychologies: such fable and vice, such velocity and freedom, at verve and fairytale.
…afire
and chasing, a socket, explosive, upon a feeling, upon electricity, upon loses:
those redeeming failures, this thetic diary, at this sensational rose—this
planet to thieves, this ghost to loins, this web, this mallet, this whet river:
as ever eager, if but sensorium, this cynic, this deep doubter, we chew our
first impressions: be it good or bad, so cultured, so terrific, so horrifying:
so small and deadly, nibbling grapes, and dinner’s a pomegranate: our laughing
glasses, our interior contacts, our sacral dictums: at something treacherous,
so beautiful for us, so decided based upon payment: those apple indexes, this
shifty examination, or that rosy paralegal….
