…we
sleep those nights, such thin aromas, watering cactus brains: we review loses,
count our insecurities, and lily our garden: so winnowed, so cautious, while
leaping towards jingles: our familiar deserts, our cozy sorrows, while
admonishing guilt: to dance swiftly, to run gallantly, or to sit distressed
where foxes cry: those spaces, Love, at muddy waters, Love, accustomed to
something irregular, Love….
…something
by goodness, may box us in, where
contradiction ensues: this island of pebbles, this cross-like trail, while we
carry our crucifixions: our tissues moaning, our lights dimly, our souls
approaching numen….
…we
live illusions, walking grayly, becoming mirrored mirages: wrestling dreams,
this intangible portrait, daily at journals: those waves churning, our desires
aflame, our indecisions becoming solid action: if but so steady, our Moralist
Cage, so rich, so filthy, so distraught: searching tree rings, counting
centuries, while saddened by history: our days to books, this world of fantasy,
those imaginary sources: so stately, so encapsulated, where fiction seeps into
chases: our reality unnoticed, our interior museum afire, projecting wishes,
delusions, and paranoia….
It
was hell, Love: centipede venom, poisonous grass, where lies knitted
obsession…this unlikely pleat, our unlikely gaze, where every second was filled
with sap: our minds aloof, our bodies insatiable, where many call it something
euphemistic: to assume normality, with everyone watching, where a secret is
kept, and one is devoid of why everyone is laughing: it disturbs by souls, it
divests signals of purity, where in reality we live an opened life: such magic
in flesh, to assume cleanliness, where something may be quite contagious: this
land of throwaways; this tail of betrayal; while it becomes normal to do as one
has been taught: whereby, this thing called, Norms, this cavalier suggestion, this adamant wall, whereby,
deviation, therefrom, becomes something to eschew: for it isn’t us, so it must be them, for we possess, The Formula: this mental necessity, this
clanging clangor, wherein, souls are given an exit: this, otherwise, cruel
existence, our pride away to college, our careers too cemented, and passion
needs its medicine: feelings unto road beetles, while searching stingray venom,
or emotion built in gila monsters: such roaring sentiments, like England is
Africa, or Greece as America’s pivot: those lower devices, our systematic
homes, while so for unity, battle, and scar: this former ally, this crazed
insanity, where Norms become
irrational: as one dies, another flourishes, despising something human, while
advertising religion: one vigils closely, one dies a smidgen, like algae to
faith.
…be
with closure, find time to rest, moreover, find space to evolve: our world has
replicas, find authenticity, but even replicas possess nuance: sing in silence,
like souls to dreams, or better, like eyes to promise: this land of perfection,
with such disarray, so dissonant, both musical and unmusical: where years are
minutes, so invested, so shocked, so thrown asunder: our parts to skies, our
cadence fluctuating, our hopes challenged by those we esteem: at something
mental, as perceived as something actual, whereat, we act upon something
fantastical: this web of likeness, if but to see our reflection, where friends
act in one accord: this valley of magnets, this need for clarity, where we
discover those activities we wish to endorse: be free to rebuttal, like earth
to rain, where it returns: this clip on captions, this movie losing gravity,
while witnesses know from country-yard to city gates….
