…bold
nonsense, elevated trauma, leaping into dynasties: so adored in you, at peace
in you, while fair a dream in you: bold nonsense, lively babies, so absolute,
such absolution—a mother’s cave, at father’s flame, too abandoned to grow
normally: abased with pride, alert with shame, at granny’s tea: those bleeding
nostrils, this mad reject, as infused and laughing at certain arbitrary
rubrics: trefoil wishes, bland music, so cursed, so inadequate, so tatted: to
need those roses, to prick a fever, so ghostly, so forbidden, while mother was
there for trial: our clover hearts, so stressed asunder, as an agent of
depression: too steep to exhume, too shallow to explain, too dangerous to
trust: crimson fingerprints, bold nonsense, and father just left insanity:
aggregate saints, flushed vomit, a vein too close to resume….
…bold
nonsense, internal blubbering, mental jinn’s: at something so deep, this
differential between straight lines and jagged lines: our crooked poverty, our
impoverished gentlemen, our poor daughters: to ask for intimacy, where damage
is loud, while a psych is speaking furiously: to break a chain, to get through,
so deeply dead inside: such to eyes, this feudal blight, this interior plight:
this love thing, those coupe things, at hospitals seated with something
running: our aloof shadows, our emotion-archetypes, so psychical, so delivered,
so infatuated with breathing: so in-between, so casual, as a word with ten
meanings: if but to remove you, if but loosen you, if but to rechain something
seeming oblivious to you….
…those
six wishes, those endangered socialites, to meet in darkness: a sudden feeling,
this thin thread, this underlining communication: so gifted, so instrumental,
and so emoted: at blackbirds, at Horace, at ions: inclined to taste, inclined
to witness, so under-earth with Sienna: torrid gowns, torrid sweat, so torrid,
so enveloped: this interior melee, this musical nonsense, alive and staring at
stars: so penchant, Love, so out of questions, Love, where such depression is
eminent, Love: for life is curiosity, to milk and augment answers, when
questions lose evidence: a purple king, a turquoise queen, while our mission is
“instruction and delight”: too mad for pictures, too crazed for intimate
reciprocation, or too aligned to fit in: those raving ideals, this craving
sanity, ‘too perfect for anything living’: our auras carrying meaning, as they
match, if lucky, our prosaic castles: our plays, or this stage about life,
while we argue over appropriateness—plus, moderate perfection: so, give more
hope, evaluate behavior, and mingle with those upper skies….
Our
philosophic scabies, or our deliberate perfections, at something ruined too
early to fully fix: our short happy lives, so disinclined at honesties, while
paper is screaming and raging at ink-moths: poets are asked deaths, evenness is
so extraordinary, while one reads, dismisses and returns to off-putting
behaviors: an opus cobweb, or a reason to persist, while a swan marinates by
indecision: this closed chapter, as opened for notes, while each look is
traumatizing: so, discard the book, live this existence, until you need to
repurchase that book: such frightened discernment, such ruthless accolades,
while it was found a madman writing history.
Our
philosophic rabies, our splendor fantast, as finding pleasure knitted by
reality: this pain-cliff, this leaping heart, so accustomed to standing near
margins: a few blemishes, as defining insistence, where a true poet apologizes,
makes such peace, and travels in forward thought.
