I
delivered rice. Infused by sanity. Or confused by integrity. This moon by gray
vines. This sky chandelier. Or this three-piece dialogue. Intrigued or
bored—this cyan blueprint—or something beige. Desert brown eyes. An interest in
Chronicles. Even a glasshouse Impala.
…so
spacial a glare…. Such good penchants. Prepared to use us. Those fairer trades.
Those fanatic winds. While branches and genetics warned of familiarity. Ebony
flesh. Coquettish but testy. Where overt language listens for his eyes. Our
mangled heritage. Our dying dynasty. While warn for decades. A remarkable
slingshot. A jukebox and marijuana. Or something more but fire.
Those
inheritance fibers. Trained to feel like ransom. But a totem for sin. Those
blue violet eyes. Those enchants. Those hymnic seducers. Teasing song-fires.
Reapplying balms. While meows echo softly. Ontic flame. Sagic rites. Omic
fevers. Our sagas vary. Our pains are plural. But in reality, we sing
differently. I go bass. I hear sorrow in cymbals. While appearances are
planned. Those mahogany lamps. Those catbirds mimic. At something Amore disclaims.
I
have us here, as a forethought, but treasury is reluctant. Our beauty so
delicate. Our secrets so universal. While a man must feel intonation. A mayfly
for Hanh. Roseries for a Bishop. And concupiscence for animals. Our minds
ghostly. Our interior leaping into mirrors. Our sourness taking our helms.
While dying to adore you, I pledge to sustain you, whether or not our ship
returns to sea. This citrus orange. This bottle of childhood. Or this flippant
irony. To sentence a gnat, while becoming a gadfly, where grandfather is hard
at discernment.
Troubadour
seduction. Timeless compunction. And Maybelline virtue. Armani imprints. Those
sensuous chains. Plus, a sultry professional ensemble. Such abandon. Such wretched
return. And such reckless public assassination. But what for questions. This
absent father. Well, Girl, in all honesty, he’s crazy. It gets easier.
It becomes normal language. While mother’s closet is full. Our unraveled
laundry, by no greater contempt, but it’s alright for others. Those bags that
couch those unclean satchel pouches. That deep scar that travesty and such for
ventilation. If but our ways. This intense gravity. Where you look fantastic as
mire rekindles mud.
I
wonder, for I know, therefore, I suggest—this screaming anxiety; but what for
thought, if I needed your soul; what if I fawned and died and curled into a
knot—pleading for us, redeeming us, and speaking so poetically I’d become an
emotive slave? This pleasurable plausible pain. This as chancing its beingness.
This dejected feeling. This eighth tier. Our insistence pushing tribes
underfoot. Or this raging tambourine. Too sought for that. So allergic to that.
While we run a mix of raspberries with plums—for something must forfeit its
determination. As radical creatures, living outrageous lies, while some are
quite comfy with that. I wonder—if I’d never uttered, those unspeakable truths,
would you have permitted me to live a lie?
It
gets richer. Looking at a human person. Asking if this soul would kill me. That
subtle, years in, irrepressible death. Those that shiver. Those that pop up.
Those that prevent future intimacies. Where a person frets contact. Where a
person needs contact. While such becomes nauseating. Indeed. “Get a therapist.
Grow a pair. And get over it.” Such kindness. Such genuine humanity.
