I meander
grayly. At fits and love. While clever but faithful. / architecture guts, those
nervous intestines, pining or ecliptic; so remain ideal, never get so close,
for I imagine to adore you; this pond of algae, this emerging muse, while winds
leap and lap and levitate; softer reasons, deficit souls, while needing pure
concentration; sacred blue mosaics, Getty adventure, Guggenheim passion;
running but half-dead, looking at imperfection, so beckoned to revive Jesus;
frontal poses, picturesque intelligence, our mindstuff, our esoteria, so mapped
to resist Jesus; genetic silence, genetic violence, where a baby knew her name;
keepsake trances, so proud to feel, as opposed to pure detrimental masculinity;
afforded emotion, severed as twins, but elated to lose; such raw sickness, such
ambushed senses, where winning was so treacherous; our sanctities, our manifest
inspiration, our apocalyptic hearts; as Love bounces in and departs quickly
where one hears a whisper;—whelmed by science, listening to yogic behavior,
while something is disapproving; so cautious and pure, so mean with reason,
while some need a tower; at fevered feelings, or abused majesty, a person may
suffer humanity; ignescent surrender, a forfeited rationalization, where
winning becomes frustration; our lovelock delusions, while one endures, where
reality is vying— those hillsides, those Solomon wiles, or our unreached
poetics; to die in tension, to probe by angles, where something in content by
control; those overwhelming women, so dynamic and resistant, but frowning while
giving; our soulprints, our voice-flavors, so cute, so ruined, but such a
tremendous actress; our men as thieves, our minds vocality, our eyes needing
such sensories; as cast to dungeons, floating by superiority, while never
enough to suffer!
Our unfastened
piano, so outstanding it lives, at poesy and grayness; inching forward,
losing lifelines, at kittens insisting upon nine lives; petting a pouch,
listening to heartbeats, intimidated by raw ownership; so secure by it, as
enveloped and sealed, while whales are in pursuit. / Our Beethoven Fifth, our
weeping elation, such culture to persist. / If but existence, our pure gravity
lights, at minor prophets. / So beige, as determined color, infused by interior
instruments. / At early phantoms, resigned to flying, while deterioration is
fatalistic. / but adored and lively, re-sewn into sentences, reaching so beyond
our future. / As ever a topic, sentenced to indefinite musicality, such
thunder, such netting, while feeling inferior. / Our days as winners. Our minds
as liquid meaty aggrandizements. / To float in terror. Or land awakened. Close enough
to sin.
I meander
grayly, signing balloons, or agitating interior. / too softly silence, aborted
to interior, reciting internally—something terrific, our best sentences, our
inner voice outsparking our outer melodies; such singers, such rock stars, such
pure absorbed angels; alas, to remember, those days so insensitive—those shards
screaming, our hearts inverted—to sound loudness, as deceased creatures, our
palms filled with grayness.
Those
chimney’s poof, our attics wheeze, our minds require more fuel. / As it lives,
this orchestra burgundy, where patience becomes force. / Our secrets for
pleasures, our friends until that pace, as one will kill souls to undercut
winners. / Those dreary participants, so dearly affected, where any news is
good food. / So deeply deprived, as never a proper example, where whimsy
becomes occupation. / But Love was sweet, our deaf joys, as always straight
with integrity. / To need evaluation, to relish in evaluation, where most
become defensive. / “If but you see me, this silent eloquence, you might
determine my opaqueness.” / Those feelings churning, abashed for one silent
touch, so in arc, soul, and chest-gristle.
