I
drip a fire, stunned by flame, an interior kernel: such warfare, aborted by
existence, at cosmic phones: for love is critical, an ancient mandolin, at
mystic magic: such cultic eyes, so beautiful I saw, but what for brains: those
intimate embarrassments, sleet and snow, fire and extinguishers: so haunted by
music, seldom a nightmare, but ever a daymare: those rivets, speaking
personality, while Love seems too gorgeous: our insecurities, our vacant
absences, awakened, asked a question, and crumbled: such breastbone, a lively
sunburst, and Love seems an undertow.
I’m
feral a scale, palming silt, and thinking your mind: to see activity, to hear
chaos, to register for intimacies: a class in passion, a curriculum in mayhem,
at psychiatric ruses: our last mile, our simultaneous epiphany, our ancient
saxophone: at miracles, assailed by silence, at wars and stars: splayed and
read, refused and dreaded, or watched, rescued, and reborn.
Rain
is fire, leaping is crucial, at cores—too kleptic: as felt a rush, as felt a
storm, so archaic, but so local: those quires, those wires, or this spiritus
thread: as alive again, felt for dying again, at memory paw-prints: if but to
touch, or but to live, if but to ruin something un-manifested: our captive
angels, those captive nymphs, and swore to breath as we fell: those concerts,
at instinctive agony, while felt our first destruction: paradox and darkness,
heart-lockets and energy, while we never existed: such spacial memories, to
have seen a face, stumbling into dejavu: our lucky terror, our indebted
depression, while we have yet been born.
…touchscreen
sensation, interior conduits, our anger-prints disrupting existence: those
pristine channels, our pristine arts, at tears, frustration, and happiness: at
Holy Water, athirst for ravished, tiptoeing ripples: so cured for dynasties, or
peering by windows, alert but terrible absence: our days to amnesty, if but to
jail our spirits, so flogged, or so purgatorial, demanding fire: but Love is
moving, but abstracts to earth, a seed just planted….
I’m
watching emotion, unsung and singing, a bit snug in your essence: those
California eyes, this sunshine illumination, or those elixir terminologies:
such a ballad, so bad and deliberate, or cursed and terrific: an inner typeset,
a miracle thunderstorm, so flushed, so wicked, so holy: our last profanity, our
anger with unknowingness, while re-stitching our numeric soul-paws.
It
was nice those cries, or lessons those jibes, while interior dialogue thrust and
numb: at aster telegraphs, and amaranth scents, a lucid laceleaf, a mysterious
lacewing: our lilac turmoil, our marigold pleasures, so foxy so gloved, at
something dying as it captures: freesia ambience, mythical happen-glance, at
critical running: afar and gunning, so close and reclusive, while miracles
pushed into our mirrors: a spark of sentience, our watery fire, as sulfur
formed upon mars: at helicopter intensity, or sky-grove sensations, aborted to
non-existence: so many gates, such rupturing walls, as we near to obliteration:
such reaching into, while thrown, thereto, if but a tile to clouds: upon deeper
ambition, needing one last child, while cosmic pressure chases our seed: a mere
passenger, someone passing by, those grins, this rift, our legacy: reveling in
misery, if but to sing delicacies, if but to compose our third obituary.
