…minty rugs, or grimy
gum, so glued and untucked: those damaged perceptions, as one ruins perception,
something lingering in brains: so confiscated, so confused, so fragile and
kleptic: our running winds, those air-legs, at something cagey but invisible:
those orange meadows, this cage in silence, so battled, so ashamed: to love as
dying, to have such peace, while souls are secluded: this village of
treacheries, those loud cadenzas, so lost in baritones: our tenor violence,
this tenor earth, left abandoned by sopranos: but life was gentle, those softer
voices, or this pet jaguar: our sweetest candy, at longer thighs, such death in
eyes promising danger: our clumpy soil, our musky vines, at dusk and dawn wide
with pity: if but to fly more, if but to adore life, so sore, so broken, but an
open door: (as Love would die, so alive with patience, so silent about
language: it couldn’t be real, so alienated, so distressed, but such a siren:
this frequent location, those frequent meals, so ordinary with time)…. I lost pearls, or muddy hill-sands,
climbing quicksand: those years became dungeons, so destroyed by vengeance, so
devastated by tragedy: something so easy, devoid of foundation, just floating
this noisy ocean: such sea-salty weeds, those inlet reasons, while Love was
such an inrush: those casual, venal, even delicate sins: our bodies meshed, our
tender crevices, our nights sound asleep: as dead to time, this timeless
dimension, such ambrosia and paradise for closed senses: our ghostly chains,
our England dictionaries, as onlookers needed a closer examination: our
footless love, our rootless cries, while attention is quite stimulating: this
venture in guts, this planetary phone, as some listen, dial voltage, and
disappear: this need in strangers, those strange faces, where reason seems to recruit its contraries:
as imagined a riddle, so utilized through antiquity, while something goodness
denotes a demonic edge: as intimate souls, so accursed for crimes, while
congratulated for devious, demented, or deteriorated behaviors: those softer
chimes, this softer giant, so appealing where hell has destroyed innocence: our
beating brains, our indifferent women, our impassive children: so alarmed at
daybreak, so confused come evening, or plain delirious come nighted songbirds.
I’ve lied to me—this interior
catalogue, living as if Doom’s Day: I’ve been overly honest, in this critical
vein, where such sounds ridiculous: those collisions, where silence, while
ashamed, is of more value than loudness, by such nakedness: that is to say,
simulation outweighs actuality, and darkness is bitter but ever with sweetness:
this man to hidden cries, our futures upon repeats, or so devastated, so
deliberate, or determined to remain an outcast: this syrup nectar, those peanut
butter nectarines, or watermelon plums: indeed, creative agony, launching a
worldwide rescue, while silent about sinning: this pudding with marshmallows,
this knee high avenger, while Love was so perfect:
this curse is perception, such
silky flesh, such robust angelica, our souls with every brushing: as glancing
in mirrors, a slight smile, so outlived, so treacherously vain, where death is
promise right so orgasmic: as climatic phantoms, our burgundy carpets, our
turquoise beddings, plus, a room filled by plush sensories: at
battled chills, such an
oval-electric-catastrophic face: to have ruined or rebuilt an army of souls
killing time for exclusivity: this war upon mortality, this revving voice,
while screaming for entrance: our immortal sounds, this interior chamber, plus,
her portrait plastered upon four exits.
