Saturday, August 31, 2019

New Pictures


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.

All are Braving the Future

    If I may tell it, sore disquieted, greeting memories. Such soul-iniquity, grinding through havens, begging those last three dimensions. ...