I
scream at, Pain, this fueled vessel, at gut, mind and fears: an entity, a
fable, something too indefinite: this shift in brains, while glory struck, and
time was happy—a blimp, a tsunami, at watery cries: such aesthetic, such emotion,
such upheaval, agony, and proponent: a glimmer, a shadow, a mad ass beast: so
sad, so bellicose, such temper and shakiness. I looked at, Love—this incredible
creature, at something selfish: redeeming eyes, resurrected ghosts, a phantom,
a panther, or ten tigers: resisting self, so steep in treacheries, and
wondering, if but to live: those phrenic faculties, those outwitting
modalities, if but Love, if but a monad.
I’ve danced Pain—gifted with liquor, at intimate rain: fused and lost,
abused and crossed, an avenue with Misery: those mental copies, those tactile
prints, addicted to radical stimuli: instincts at feelings, emotions at
actions, or logic at resistance: but, Love was mind, and, Love was mystic—those
radiant and uncomposed features. Pain
appeared gentle, so normal, so extravagant: this slain-ship, this glorious
struggle, to find her on so many corners: she drinks Red Bull, she cooks like
queens, plus, Love dangles, filtered in blues, a substance whoremonger: this
remarkable agony, this causeless surprise, at angles and turns and shermed in
back alleys. I loved, Pain—every
concomitant, affiliated with Sorrow, at study, strategy and confinement. I
saw her there, touching thoughts, and moving bodies: introduced to Pain, this fair
skinned sinner, while Pain was apt to destroying: Angst here, Pain there, while
Life was examining and taking notes: so unbridled, so outstanding, and Pain
spoke a codified language: unto nausea, shouting at traffic, and regurgitating
vomit: a curse, a friend, an official of this church!
I
sung Pain, unmixed—such beauty: so low with Pain, so threshed, angered, and
dissatisfied with Pain: plus, inversion, a heart for Pain, where happiness felt
unnatural: furious aches, extraordinary passion, where Pain was art: so
kleptic, so directed, and alert to her visits: this Lawyer with Satan, this
cherub with angels, this intimate force in God: a friend of sinners, a director
of saints, an ancient and dynamic force in Jesus: indeed, he wept, for
weeping is crucial, and Pain recites our agendas: this Psychologist, this Psychiatrist,
this Theologian: at businesses, at facilities, even a Judge’s breath: this
engulfing miracle, this coarse adversary, this vehicle with a deep disguise: so
pleasant, so seated, so deeply influential.
I know, Pain, while we hang out, where a daughter scribbles at Pain: this
force in eyes, this woman’s desiccation, this clown’s vodka, while kids scream,
play acrobatics, and scud and flit and smile: so terrible with Pain, this
sphinx with Pain, this royal ambassador as Pain: so crossed with it, and such a
fool with it—abused by occupation with it.
We
guzzle Pain, this drinking frenzy, seated and alert, amazed and numb, at both
ceremony and celebration: so changed, so effected, at motion, dynamite and more
Pain: this intricate force, her cousin, Melancholia, their mother, Goddess
Brains: at mirth with Pain, so dictated by Pain, while building an empire in
Pain: to wake up, smile Jesus, and take inventory for Pain: this Empress, this
fire filled and angelic energy—those remote ideals, this achiever for moments,
while sudden to evaporate: this pointing baton, this uneasy appearance, or
shaved, clean cut, and lying by exaggeration: this perfect picture, this
remorse about existence, or this portrait where mother smiled: this arousing
creativity, this receptive voice, or those synaptic prints: such familiarity,
such poverty and wealth, a fantastic confidant: this moral agent, this sinister
appetite, at widows, orphans, alive an orchestra—a philosophic Professor: such
courage, if but to sustain Pain, if but to harness Pain, if but to operate,
while ministering to Pain.
