I’ve loved Prose—adoring her needles, pledged to
survival: something missing, by convergence, attempting to caress invisibility:
clasping rules, tottering softly, while seconds shimmer: triumphant eyes,
necessary treasures, indebted to poetry: mornings rejoice, afternoons are
ambivalent, where nights are fluid: clarion beauty, remarkable pain, restudied,
rejuvenated, plus, aloof: unnecessary infliction, summoned in clear winds, a
gust of flying pressure: Love glistens, but Love is unseen, while a poet sounds
unclear: Solomon’s Wisdom, this Netherlands Soul, thither, or hither, those
prudent castles: strewn in pieces, planted by helium, re-captured, once beyond frustration:
prosaic sexiness: shape, tone, plus, musicality.
I’ve died in Prose—those curious feelings, re-jetted,
or abandoned to an inner edifice: this tall building, those skyglass emotions,
as left, but lost, while leaving sanity: requiem banquets, parable insanity,
where Prose was running: those naked realities, those privy nouns, as flower,
as pollen: Prose is sitting higher, our pedestal majesty, while garbs spoke to
dire infatuation: glimmer, but torments, seldom a polite creature: travail,
toil, therewith, aguish, plus, agony: treated as nonentity, or cupped into
serenity, starved while needing a push: hereinto, those primal cries, dazzled
by promising eyes, aching but astute, while winning favor.
Prose is righteous, in an indigenous environment,
trekking miles into our cities: an impulse at large, a fugitive in broad
daylight, flung for shoved, becoming both keel, plus, imbalance: mermaids sing,
in aching denial, praising piety, as, too, great misery: gravel, skin, a
mixture of blood, as gravity releases, as Newton cries, our bone, grit, plus, hereness
through lights: as momentary flame, distinguished chaos, looking into women for
Prose: its undulation, its lightsome, aloof apathy: its scream, its august
womb: that matrix, our beating tambourines, or this mauled spirit: decided dearly,
this plight in souls, at debris, thereinto, particles, wherefore, un-whole, at
dark valley trespasses: our woolen ink, our flannel pencils, bent into lunacy,
if but to impress Prose.
My Amore, something as pegs, flirting lights, flags,
plus, patriotism—an anxious eruption, through wooded screens, at tyranny
decisions, thereinto, a claim bleeding its breath: rhetoric, scholarship,
herewith, a dynasty—those sages, those shamans, those instructors: oddity
pressures, quaint suggestions, by Prose, this measure for testing, at singing
invisibility: an irregular harmony, a pure dramatist, as leader of inheritance,
shoveling into thetic enterprises: a gripping thirst, while needing
subjects—the daughter of Aphrodite: those triumphant women, those triumphant
cries, a tender sense screaming for clarity: recruiting cupid, laying claims to
souls, re-nailing our penmanship: incredible dewdrops, upon incredible agonies,
while Love ached a lowercase letter.
Prosaic pride, an art at clockwork, a marigold, a
flight some exotic location: seated at mediums, a profound soothsayer, aliened
with wisdom: ancient as oak, roaming in conversation, at cypress sap: gifted
with dying, living through writers, at a woman’s emotion: moved, resurrected, at twilight skulls, those bodies wafting,
this Kingdom in prophets: at location, re-sung, an internal godhead, thereinto,
held captive, an opened window, seeping into fragrances: empty but erotic, sour
but sweet, revealed when melancholic: reborn those cities, fragile at it, or
stalwart with hell to give: Abel’s sister, amazed for cringing, at fire with
works: a setting tear, a glorious fever, charged for treason: an adulterous
well-print: those caves, those petroglyphs, as Prose scribbled.
Prose is fossils—by design a hearth, a fireplace, an
un-manifested, latent tendency: outbursts with song, cloudy texture, a seraph’s
cousin, a cherub’s aunty: incarnate, swimming into languages, those dulcet
eyes: an appetite, a deadman’s guitar, our womanly fury: pledged to her, at
fires to approach her, as stunned, or shunned, while haunted by Eternity!
