…we ache darkness, so
madly at love, this fulfilled exhilaration—while dogged for grogged, or at
liquid misty rains, as cursed for addicted to adrenaline: this foolish arc,
this gruelish heart, straining at gnats: our filthy closets, our filthy selves,
at others waving our filthy gavels: that
old me, this new enterprise, too sustained to proffer mercy: but love is
fluid, leaking into crevices, if but so ruined it feels fantastic—at cures with
passion, at rules while laughing, to realize something is quite capable: such
ruthless cries, such tormented seasons, where it felt drastic to omit love:
abated deception, nonetheless, deception, while Love adored listening: our
quenched lies, our crazed membranes, or this incessant typewriter: this dome of
participants, this exchange of fluids, this rule breaking into insanity: this
tugged ear, this feast in winter, this frozen kite: abed and rising, at hell
with an headache, while nibbling for knitting those kilns: to make a monster,
while feeling privileged, to flit, waft, or scud across his grave: utter
disrespect, plus, anti-moral, such loss, such inveterate costs: to wend
properly, to winds and guillotines, at islands sensing this midnight valley:
our worlds churning, our worlds glistening, while reality coasts into venue:
but Love is agony, and Love is true, and Love is young: but a proper greeting, but
a dead-zone stare, but a second to feel otherworldly: such shallow observance,
such misperceived voltage, while a man must be hero every second of every hour:
this vast claim, this relaxed woman, as made available and this is heaven: our
gentle selves, our relaxed selves, if but three wands a day: needing
excitement, needing gravel to melt, and needing fulltime admiration….
…this
sure patience, if but dislodged, while undercurrents frazzle our compass: such
raving linguistics, such cosmic algebra, so gone, so oracle, so Sibylline: our
pseudepigrapha’s, our apocrypha’s, our lying ass existence: indeed, a bit morbid, looking at
tales unfold, so unlatched, so restricted, while needing an overhaul: at
various movies, stressed and gnatlike, or netted and losing those giggles: this
plan in reverse, this season for wolves, while dependability is something for
auction: our purchased realities, our lonely realities, or so indebted but
flashing zillions: this haven of cries, this laughing audience, where Love felt
used:
indeed, this languishing voice, this seductress sylph, as a man holds to
something unstable: our versatile dictionaries, this metaphor for language,
while realizing something quite insipid: to desire our own, this field so vast,
while selective a beat thrumming our arcs: or strumming midair, waving into
orbit, so afflux’d heart-threshing is illegal: this romance woman, this flex his anatomy, this
pseudo-terrific mistake: at bowels and brains and bold and delivered: this
ghost night, our bodies at combustion, our ark swaying to but fro—this green
light, amid our seas, while whales are at harmony: this skyfall, this
crystallized music, amidst or driven awakening in millponds: such electric
geese, such friendly fire, while thoughts were crucial and terminated: to know
for dependability, to know for reliable, our brains so close to edges: this
faithful reality, this platonic, faithful confidant, those rollers, those currents,
or so damn attractive we close our loins: this unborn trestle, that is, this
unborn table, but life be gentle this mental machine….
I evade war, over
something critical, upon a whetstone grinding his proclivities: this vibrant
tavern, over something so simple, to await while rulers exercise profanity: as
never to language, for it’s quite appealing, a dignified queen utilizing risqué
wordings: this fabulous specimen, this creative lover, those times we needed
some type of summit:
this sundry appetite, confined to this laboratory, so confused it felt good to
rebirth: such sexy auras, or so threshed for ruined, such bodily chemistry: but
theologian be good, as never to confess, this longing for majesties: our winter
dynasties, our spring royalties, our summer faux pas: indeed, this lost with
times, this evening with ladies, or running for averted to full commitment:
this turn in prosaic(s), this woman with glasses, where reality seems
suggestive.
