…if but more love, so deceased, beating harps,
at large from mirrors: such friendship, such reckless sin, such diabolic
concerns: at red ribbons, a butterfly passion, so sealed, so delivered, so
cursed: to censor thighs, to cry deliverance, to need something protruding: our
midnight escapes, our inner city habits, at clubs, or seasons, blotted and
failing lovely: those dying eyes, those cringing remarks, at something too
honest for destiny: our failed fires, our needy selves, so close, too afar, a
scar upon bars: so opalescent, so scandalous, so chiseled: at resets, steady a
coma, or anxious a blackout, if but that incredible overthrow: our bowels
demented, our morals slanted, our rivers gunning: as beautiful losers, or ugly
winners, so devoted, so acrimonious: at pale blue skies, at ocean green
survival, so afar and blazed into a nightmare: your ephemeral aura, your tree
wings, at something colorful—our achy blights, so steep it burns, so alive it’s
frightening: our wild galaxies, our sky tombs, so earthly, so seductive, so
octopus: those arms, so aesthetic, at right havens, born but sick into winter:
thitherto, our estate shaky, our skies at arches, so terror, so koala: if but
to dream, if but a thousand daughters, if but each those pearly white eyes: as
men dying, needing one Love, as something to confess at our tribunal: so cut
alive, so sliced and revving, or courted for destroyed: those years bleeding,
those months to hospitals, those slithering creatures: hereto, our gray ambition,
our carnival lives, so defrosted, so warm, crying, dying, living in broken
ceilings….
…quokka ambition, rat remnants, blue black
terrors: as cursed and bathed, as livid and calm, as deceased and breathing:
this life laughing, this moon crashing, this father at instincts: so aloof, so
crooked, so spacial: at guts this woman, so porcupine, so friendly: our brave
deaths, if but to adore—this craven appetite, so against one trillion: those
backwards letters, those forward heavens, our skulls speaking Italian: echidna
ferrets, so honest, so concerned: to feel as brains, to live as tweets, or so
gone Love has never broken flesh: if but to adore, or but to live, as turquoise
inquisitors: those times, Love, at penchants, pensive and remorse, Love:
therewith, this brilliant curse, to feel mystic distance, to know a particular
remorse: as sold and wrapped, or destined and flipped, our alpaca fleece eating
into long-winds: our topless seas, our interior sperm whales, so gifted, so at
large, so psycho-connected: as born and craving, or alive at wonders, or
celebrated for denying something giving life….
I celebrate feelings, this enormous elevation,
this orgasmic death: to meet those eyes, to confess this emotion, to plead for
three seconds of feelings: electric glimpses, squeaky evidence, or recitals
three beams early: such motion-predators, looking to relive three seconds,
while Love adores her fashion: our fang-teeth, digging into skies, while nothing
separates long-infinity: deep sea blues, those deep needs, as alert and
seasoned with losing: our tattooed names, this brain war, this cut for threshed
and never another—to redeem this curse, to know for Wednesdays, to know brains
scream: so invisible, so blessed, so torn but laughing: those hatchet fish,
those grungy figs, at cherries, begging a woman’s nature: to imagine work, to
imagine friends, to imagine every connection permeating her future: to contend,
with hell to pay, while thrust’d for born, at this funny aisle: our rented
privileges!
