…a delayed text, a
musical intellect, so released, so captured, so free in prison: longing for
mystics, removed from reservoirs, at something displaying high dignities: such
imageries, such sugary integrity, while so low and never with utterance: those
frightening nights, debating mania, at so many hours arrested: this lyrical
midnightism, this raking nightmare, over tears and gin and broken bottles: this
dungy mirror, this mire mudslide, so afraid of rooms and hospitals and such
radiant concerns: holding to gnats passing, so recharged, so at this movie
lying in wakes: those tombstones, this cobblestone, those catacombs: while
babies speak Spanish, and omens speak Arabic, at this interior house: (to adore
inactivity, at something too cultic, while energy awaited his arising): those
few creatures, so involved in existence, so rich, so amazing, where one is want
to ask for degrees: such loses, this web fretting, this spider giggling, or
roses at both honor and ridicule: so challenged by rivers, flowing into
daylight, at kinship with Gertrude: so exercised, at Love for magnets, while
Love will adore her chosen: this fairer soul, this sanctuary at solitude, this
man, those children, this fool so enchanted but too deliberate: at curses
shredded, at truths with reluctance, at bars and scars, so remote, so imprisoned,
so ridiculously free: those sorrows at fire, such petering out, in order to
build Our Lord’s Empire: (be so gentle, be what I need, forget this selfish,
satisfying contradiction): so core driven, so ambient craving, so desperate, so
impassive, or so eclectic: this sack with laundry, our underwear in coffins,
our brains so satisfied where love is choking: this need and requirement, those
requite sandals, or attempting to shatter this devious wall: so intrigued by
yogis, so at boarders with mystics, or so crazed for adoring Sufis: this crazy
ass magic, so alert and pushing, so dead but arising from coffins: this
beautiful, deceased, and fully acrobatic lieutenant: (so threshed, Love, so
radiant, Love, or those overworked neurotransmitters: so attuned to mechanisms,
so alert and gunning, but Life kissed this desperate and cultic failure)…such
sunlight, this analytical, deceptive, eagerly crazily and attached queenship:
this mixture ocean, this lava lake, so addicted to pure and unadulterated
honesty: in this small pond, while lies are to evade reality, where one is dire
afraid of rejection: but activities probe, while guilt is enormous, but one
can’t remove those obstacles: this chase in dungeons, this welt to brains, this
crying, quite passionate session at lovemaking: such screaming apologies, such
electric electricity, so pulled and needing to heal this deviant creation: our
bowels, Love, our brains gutted, this pile of Hindu bones: those pyres, such
irrational extremity, so accustomed, so gifted, so afar a nightmare: our sermon
curses, our shame upon banisters, our drags so attuned to heart-frequencies: as
men investigate, while women are prided, if but to abuse something so
grievously ancient…. …the end has
come, so close to this egress, panting, shifting, writing, and at thoughts this
mystic never-vase: so at another, but said in silence, or so at another, but
distressed with mystics: those psychological portals, to find fault with each
one, while adhering to something inherently flawed: our multiple philosophies,
our eclectic expertise, if but to deny attraction for one flying: this
gut-basement, this heart-attic, of this heart-public: so crazed and gunning,
while Love is quite clean, this appearance reneging upon perception: so
chanted, Love, so visual, Love, while afraid to fully invest: this partial
existence, this losing life, while so desperate to exist: if but that level, if
but that extent, where one turns right and hearts flutter: to write more than
living, to live more than dying, while dying this culture of pure dislodgments:
so crystallized, while adoring visions, such goodness up for auction: so close
to nothingness, while so full with emptiness, if but this last soul to
prove existence: our casual wagers, where one must attend to his job, where
encounters prove satisfying: our ceilings uplifted, our species so beautiful,
at something re-delivered and seeming familiar: our trombones screeching, our
trumpets at triumphs, or Love seeing a different spirit: this long, romantic,
even idyllic poet: as opposed to living, where encounters are fluent, while
regret seems indispensable—this fire haven, this disastrous soul, but life
chose this crossing of exospheres: so caught in skies, so needy for passion,
while I long longer than something normal: so many faces, so much laugher, or
something so simple as sexual daylight: to move so flawed, to become so free,
while at love feeling released from bastilles: this barricade, this firewall,
those firebrands so indelicate when injured: such deep profanity, that filthy
mouth, encompassed in pure dignity: this oxymoron, or this self made consensus,
while one is so allergic to something creative: those wilder vines, those
wilder friends, or something souls will never envelope!
