It feels different,
at once ecstatic, fretting closeness: at concentration, at rosy passions, at
innuendoes: such by life, figured in demands, so powerful, so darkened, so
captive: those laughing hips, this strict persona, amazed but un-captured: our
disturbing minds, our playful seriousness, at something so vague: it was years
those days, awakened tenderly, observing dimples: Love was dreamy, so young
this savant, so imbalanced this aged vision. I’m dreading demons, plus, seeing ghosts,
plus, and, nevertheless, seeking absolution: those deep incisors, this broken
balloon, or this emphatic obsession:
grabbing Jesus, tearing his tunic,
while attracted to something sultry: at caged emotions, uncaged and growling,
or hissing a great dragon: those interior screams, leaking in facial quirks, so
bass-lined, so treble hearted, so different: our troublesome infatuation, those
troublesome absences, while abased for leering into mire: those winds, my Arc,
this fool with madness, at aches and pangs, aborted to feeling empty: our
separate lives, ignored casually, while eyes are reaching: such existence, such
existential loneliness, while anger seems impartial: quick with tempers,
outlandish with cries, too close to absorb pain: our loud clocks, our louder
dreams, so indebted, so embarrassed, where agony seems appropriate: those
regular reasons, this regular Iceland, at something too irregular to call home:
searching through graphics, at mythical sensation, so evolved, so impassioned,
or enveloped and mailed to failures.
Day II
I adore
thoughts, walking into Love, so abandoned to inhibition: at churns, dying God,
so forbidden and dancing: our aches bleeding, so rough those gates, while
seated in Nazareth: searching rhythms, at Lake Depression, or feeling elated:
this wheel spinning, this lane laughing, this gut so demented: such passed-out
lights, such lengthy problems, so disgusted and feuding behaviors: plus, those
eyes, that concentration, while so far apart: so grateful, so pained, our guts wooing
reality: those exaggerations, this oxymoron, at deeper dangers: so blue with
life, so readjusted, contemplating sex: this intimate investment, this tell all
story, our bodies extensions of our souls: so wrong with existence, so many
drastic years, so abrasive to core beliefs: so damaged, or so ahead, while
fiddling indecision: (those cries, so silent, pushing through pressures: so
allergenic, so close, so deadly afar: thrusting Cyan Rain, alive and laughing,
such undercurrent screams: to have perfection, to die perfection, so curled, so
lavish, so dead inside: our fierce actions, our weekday admiration, while
needing something atypical: this burning house, this lazy fire department, or dreams
raging into rashes: our inner disrespect, our caliber nonsense, at more than
something casual: but time is dying, water has run dry, and Life is cringing
from thirst: our parental love, so worried inside, to have known such
composition: as giving fire, and receiving fire, while something is nudging
fire: those sky-maps, this conscious concern, where something would if but this
reputation: those classic rehabs, this interior madness, so escaped, so found, and
so many decades at becoming perfect).
I
found language, this raging thief, those intellectual, mnemonic casualties: our
seesaws, our rhythms with turquoise, at sunshine, so bottled, so intense, so
curious: to perish so gently, to rent passion, or trespass achy hearts: our
courage waning, our thrills petering-out, so addicted to particular cadence: to
sense you those seconds, to see slight jealousy, so amazed you hear me: but
Love’s over there, and a swan over those mountains, or cadence, commands, and
gray/black clouds: so alive a thought, peering into transgression, at thoughts
feeling ruined: this Princess madness, this Mystic Misnomer, or this capturing
weblock: at terrible frustration, a casualty to behaviors, or too quick to
dismiss potentiality: so abandoned, so relocated, while interior dungeons are
flicking photographs: those gunning ghosts, this churning room, or this class
of mistakes: this answering machine, those wrathful typewriters, or this
spirit-calligraphy: so captive with expression, but lost to confession, as
saying a great deal and missing those lights: this inch in mud, those terrible
observations, where years become accuracy: while never another soul, so many
wasted years, such pining, missing faces, while most never would: those tender
concerns, if but freshwater, if but romantic alligators: but days are weary, as
brains are temperamental, but discipline is waging its war: to adore while
living, to die while breathing, at pure battle!
