…inmost
cadence, sidereal exospheres, so displaced, looking into resonance: those night-chills,
this mechanical universe, our dreams and screams and fires: such undergrowth,
such rhapsody, at Love’s agonizing core-structure: so enlove with feelings, so
absolute, at trespass, enveloped in faith: our shivering veins, our guzzled
herd-storms, so sick, so lieutenant, so found in dirty mud: this split in
appearances, to sense something shifting, while one confesses to God’s
Chambers: our luxury miseries, our curious swans, while a poodle conversed with
a flamingo: at mystic remedy, so pushed with wires, while forced to acquiesce:
such atypical torture, applying future recurrence, where one dies while keeping
pieces: our craved senses, our lunatic betrayals, so caught, so damaged, while
forcing us to ignore our eyes: those cruel beings, so alert to fiction, while
cementing our slavery: to imagine loyalty, instead of homage-lights, while
terror increases: itchy tattoos, easy disturbance, so flawed, so free, a willow
for something dying: so familiar, so cursed, where a person has little
respect—for this essence, or this survival, so invested in holding our child: too
natural, a mile in mix, where it becomes this endless treachery….
…goosebumps,
goose-grass, or goose-ghosts: so perfect to me, so invisible to me, this sick
ass violinist: our trumpet orgasms, our clarinet climaxes, while found seated
with phantasms: never with touch, too damned to succeed, while nothing is solid
perfection: those eyes screaming, such rough body language, while so
intoxicated: realizing coldness, mimicking through heroin, so pulled by
something seemingly uncultivated: our lying feelings, our running logic, while
left with pure intuition: those emotions gunning, this rabid nightmare, so
thrown, so beautiful, so richly cataphatic: our ecclesia, our
caged rabbits, our cabbage with links and sausage and carrots: this empty
wrangler, addicted to samsara, where something hermeneutical impresses
disturbance: our tarred eyes, our feathered flesh, our scraping and tithing, if
but existence: those rubescent thighs, those opalescent indexes, our cards
missing infinity: so blighted, so hated, while prose seems immortal: those
cultic seconds, this cultic membrance, so under this metaphorical cursing: such
foul language, amid afoul passions, while memories clash with adolescent
fantasies: this perfect woman, filled with ripples, as imagined—this is
reality: so conflicted, such against consensus, where a man argued against
hugging children: or to witness, a fallacious show, while mother hugged and
seemed dislocated: those flippant pipes, those flippant joints, or this
flippant liquor: our terrible screams, or this perfect perception, to give a
woman what she can’t carry: to ask for Mother Mary, while desiring Calypso,
where one is wife, as another miracle…such a blatant offense, those years to
dying, as torn asunder….
…trenchant
absence, too close to depart, too far to reach: at buried aphorisms, a career
writing proverbs, while doubted as if mulatto meant sinister: so delicate, so
sensitive, so sweet: this foolish darkness, this remote curse, where one yearns
above his caliber: so immortalized, so discussed, at psychs playing piano: so
cured this falseness, so fabricated this confession, where another shifted to
total jealousy: as but a creature, in this energized envelope, while but a few are
endowed to fathom: our daughters feeling something, at heart-arrythmias, where
father has a hole in his logic: this contagious race, or this contagious voice,
at something too pure for a one night stand: to possess a demon, those demonic
eyes, while chased by something in Mary’s Diary: such feared resistance, at
swans with insistence, in hope one might fly: chewing fun, or gumdrop
spirituality, at many arising quirks: so brightly brilliant, too passionate for
mere a soul, at resonance so deep a contender’s arc….
