It
gets colder, plus, winter looms, plus, remission lingers: ravished by life,
accustomed to lights, debating our experience: clouds are gloomy, our sun is
raging, our weather disputes our comforts: so inclined, as needing affection,
quite alone at times: rebuking feelings, but quite normal, expecting something
spectacular: something spicy, something seasoned, something intuitive: this
fair chase, as paced with limes, at something apparently natural: at old
memories, sudden upon a second, resisting transference: but sight is difficult,
our candent hearts, our cadent tussle, our removed inhibitions: while pain is
shifting, closeness is forming, where miracles make our decisions: (it becomes
rapture, needing belief, this informal creature: bleeding diamond leaves,
trekking into meadows, disappearing in trees: our picnic moment, our apricot
ants, our ruined, excitable intermission: those dusty winds, our dusky clouds,
at intricate, in-depth observation): metaphorical baskets, white porcelain
cries, so present, so alert, while needing those seconds: therein, those
shimmering glances, such a radical aura, ‘transmitters freely into our
reservoir: looking for reality, inclined to dispute actuality, at something
profound and sensual….
It
begins with poses, analytical, magnetic evaluation—and something seeming
complex has become quite simplistic: our ridiculous presumptions, about
something in spaces, where agony cries for mercy: we make judgments, concerning
our bodies, we wait and determine worthiness: we examine through touch, we
denote conclusions, while we decide upon merits: so cozy, so reminiscent, at
blueberry cries: if but telepathy, while misappropriating closeness, where
familiarity becomes suggestion: this thief in time, our terrible paradox,
staring at a bold and daring, flexible, outstanding creature: such tides,
waving into awareness, plus, behind this eight-ball: this game of billiards,
our deranged philosophers, our heart-threshed spirituality: those childhood
enforcers, our childhood inculcation, while adult and struggling to love this
image: our talkative reflection, our reflexive orison, while trying desperately
to cherish reflection: at sadder reality, at brilliant ecstasy, while chained
by internal ingestion: so asked for love, so determined by strangers, while one
loves if and only if: this perfect waiting, those perfect spoons, those perfect
gifts: our perfect outings, our perfect responses, our perfect composure: at a
perfect kiss, destined for a perfect tryst, dangling from a perfect tree: at
something mechanical, yearning for something perfectly sporadic, while language
is perfectly erratic: our societal harbingers, our need for something
indelicate, while we examine mother’s perfect selection: if but fully honest,
this need for something anti-intellect, while needing something imbued by
intuition: those familiar light-bulbs, our bodies speaking their lexicon,
herein, our souls must speak our bodies reflection: a bit subtle, while we
pine, indeed, for a gorgeous, academic, remotely promiscuous, exclusive, first
night wife.
It’s
quite complex—becoming quite illogical, while demanding both freedom and
slavery: this writer’s existence, this woman’s career, while needing something
compatible: a particular enchantress, a particular kingdom, a particular
appeal: while we become blind, where we relish agonies, at a seduced interior
voice: so athletic, such athletic pain, so sophisticated, so geared towards our
interests: debating terrors, brightly coquettish, while undressing inhibitions:
it comes naturally, while assessed indefinitely, where one hankers and craves
something exclusively profound: our communities are searching, our pastors are
searching, and our women are searching: such money and power, by a driven
ambition, while fruitful and tangible: at a spiritual space, feeling quite
close, while we do near to imaginable: so fluffy at seconds, so combative at
seconds, so enthralled, so delicate, while treated as a dignified human:
indeed, something so natural, becomes something disapproved, where we need
those elements: our raspberry teas, our banana-bread hearts, gazing into
something too sexual to fathom: those communities, while needing something
hidden, plus, our mesmerized children: if but to exist, while cleanness
shouldn’t escape us, we must maintain a clean aura: but life is filthy, plus,
remanded to slums, while we must at both dirt and holiness: but a deranged
outlook, but a speaking disposition, while to keep must become an ideal: such
presence, such remarkable conversation, plus, we dance together: our ballet
minds, our poetic passion, our slight concern: this internal balance, while
damn near an animal, a tad bit cautious and territorial: so painted in
perfection, but so far from a saint, while accepted, glamorized, plus, adored.
