I clutch
a guitar, a bit spacial, laughing in teal eyes. The clench of brick perfume,
bodily titillation, or something appealing to my features. While fretted
hiding, or casual by death, our graves are agitated. I found fleeting solace. I
resurrected in smiles. But it became torturous to ponder us. Our scented
blankets. Our scented thoughts. But Love is pure dissociative. So many stand stills,
to sense a woman, while contemplating that inherent life. Those Moral Laws,
this inconsistency, while tugged by something seeming relentless. Those Haiti eyes.
Those Asian remedies. Or this treacherous attraction. Means and ends. Life and
delusion. Plus, this irregular wall. Where Love is sensuous, as Love is passionate,
but Love has little for Categorical Imperatives. If but to die and come back. If
but to dream in turquoise. If but to touch, resound, and ignite this Holy War. A
purer thought, our contractual breach, while attempting to trust each other. Those
Atlantis sips. This glowing frontal cord. Or this radicalized connection. Seated
in mannerisms. Watching a blank endeavor. To sudden upon a freesia vocality. Our
sins at war. Our demons striking energies. So cursed, those gates and walls, to
feel like I adore someone.
I sinned
by intention. I died is detention. I transmigrated, fell into delusions, and
resurrected in purgatory. But Love is darling. And Love is smart. While angst
has given Love to a longing participant. Gnawing grass grains. Feeding fire
flares. Or smelling something without a scent. This baffling courage. This extreme
aphrodisiac. Running into our sky fire. As a mere illusion. Or a concerned
advocate. To die. Feel. And encounter a slight energy. Our dharma electricity.
Our samsara love; too dedicated to needing this ecstasy to persist
forever.
I must
confess. This trench, this sky slope, this hellish river. Listening to magnolias.
Or eating scorpion poison. While a feature appears as a thump. This pixel brain
this conglomerate of subtle seconds where I swore to see a different existence.
This unleashed person. This curse by blessedness. Or those rare fungus
benefits. As alive in something. Or dead to survive in life. Where a person
watches, distinguishes a disconnect and cleaves to a susceptible channel. But adored
essence, so uncaged, so glorious, as found in mire and sprinkling glitter: this
meshed soul; those violent cotton pillows; as needing, if but exclusive,
someone to escape our tyranny.
I will
to fire in us. I will to receive said fire. But I will never to contend
again. Those amaranth smiles. This picture held to mirrors. As looking—reflexive
into reflection—so frank, so bold, but a coward to meet those gazes. This silty
hall. This chain of chains. Too linked to us. So alive in penchants. Or killed
for soft a dying incitement. Those links. Those linchpins. Too into something Safiya
wrote. To have this feeling. To purchase an eraser. While at this building
blazing in burials. Our cursed angst. Or this grandfather portrait. At one
terrorizing something beneath cypress. Our private algae. Our dried-up lagoon. Or
this talkative spider. These days in feelings. Looking at clockwork architecture.
While deception says we’ve triumphed.
I ate
a window. I scribbled upon a shower. I became something most people disdain. This
heaving countenance; this mental eclipse; into a reservoir haunted by bias or
insecure motivations. This planet of tentacles. This paradise of actions. While
distinguished by emotion. Those signs at skies. Those agreement breaths. Or these
airs as beating branches. To resolve in losing. Or to perchance by wins. If but
to become something lethal. Those rare diesels. Those familiar needs. While determining
something defies logic.
