…particular soul-torch,
this variable fire, while extinguishing senses: this flippant flame, this
robust thump, so cagey, so erratic, so calm and spacial: as fools claim
ownership, this leftist moon, this radical sunrise: at cages moaning, at Love
with distance, or aborted to devil’s candy: this man with insights, to arrive
at convictions, so scorched, so fried, so angelic: such with legacies, this
mere spirit, afforded deep intuition: as famous with sages, at flux with
ignorance, so skilled, so charmed, so charming: to flex his pulse, to beat his
heart, to know with eagerness this lot of calligraphy: our bottles with sin,
our devil-may-care with glory, while a man still runs from a legit woman: those
senseless morals, this tasteless ethic, or so contradictory with existence: our
pardoned goodbyes, our odors wafting, as metaphors for those unspoken, but pushy
intensities: that blank reason, this blank response, or so cut for struggling
to revive: such blackness arts, such ruthless winds, at ruth and sorrow and
guzzling tornadoes: (as making her point, chasing her wines, aloft for powerful
but totaling at zero incentive: those roping avalanches, this current heart,
while it would seem so unimportant: those strange feelings, this rivaling
reality, where certain women would perish to see us grin: this prosaic address, this simple complexity, so aborted
to finer assessments: but yours is thought, and thought by measures, where one
listens, petitions life, or dies attempting to own something irresistible: a
man’s workshop, while it gives security, where one is adored and at harm’s way
to ignore reality: those running eyes, those un-holding legs, or arms shot to
Venus: this remote feeling, while settled into nothingness, where something so special becomes frustration: this
fairer sunshine, this lovely vase, our palm prints uplifted from souls: this
heart-paw, this brain-lake, at minds and deaths and serious delusions: so concentrated,
where such was infringed upon, as reason to suggest humans see: this galaxy I
ride, this planetarium I glide, where daughters are plain oblivious: this
trenchant horror, this slice of hell, at gates and locks and adored for
pleasures: this spiritual location, this spiritual delicacy, while it felt good
for somewhat a second: that is to say, this horror with hearts, this fine, thin
road, where Love needs something returning in furry: this ferocious exchange,
this feral mentality, to wrestle and tussle while finding our escape: if but to
live, as knowing for us, where
reality wasn’t pointing at wives and husbands and impressionable children: this
drift in lights, as never an opportunity, while Love is subject to shift):
those fleeing frenzies, this flying anxiety, or energy generated through
opposite poles: those welkin fires, this churning interior, while agony felt so
sweet…!
…it rages higher,
those concentrative seconds, or those rosary interior arcs: this feral flame,
this furry castle, this common cause: as addicted to existence, if but this interior
locution, if but to sing to something too far gone: this man with motives, to
wonder about gentility, or to examine those islands that make a woman chance:
this deep inferno, this raging wingspan, at curses and glories where it felt
hell to suggest loneness: as two ingest each other, while food becomes richer,
and art becomes roses, while life becomes endearing: this slit in agonies, this
lace in cocaine, or spread so afar while Love is anchoring: this itchy balance,
those imperfect galaxies, or this perfected, incandescent, fiery conglomerate
about flame: our creeping apricots, our deep resistance to yeast, at something
so cold, but so devastating, in order to become humans: those blatant concerns,
this interior sin-sentence, in eyes so alive with deception….
