…back
from malaise, or impoverished moods, while seething this cycle; reminded of
pure beauty, those unseeing instruments, where surface was intoxicating; old
before his time, elders and whisky, or satellite dreams; this scope of hays,
this haze in tenderness, or to touch oblivious to consequence; so involved in thisness,
so presumed by whatness, where thatness was abated by presence;
our minds confounded, our bodies corresponding, before morals determined
attraction….
It
appears normal. It sings opera. But art isn’t vocal enough. / Such ethic
poverty. So delicate to Shunga. And often revisited.
I
spoke to it, this harping unsteadiness, listening to tragedy. Those burgundy
feelings, those esoteric cries, so distant and feeling concerned. Removed from
essence, re-pictured with time, at crystalized redemption. To flit and glide,
seems so foreign, where deep sociality is scarred. But life is forward, where
thoughts travel backwards, while many are warring those clocks. Memories upon
feathers. Screams upon scarves. Deeper enclaves upon pillows. / Our weeping
joy. Those furnaced flickers. At one particular ember. / To chance existence.
Or perish existence. Galloping into justice. / So feral a dream. Such heavy
logs. While clarity is foggy. / Our needs for familiarity. Our desires for
rough terrain. While cleaving to something seeming normal.
This
surge of walls, this dirge of calls, while urged to crawl. / Fevered for
clearance. Wrestling by toothpicks. Our asylums fortified.
…those
bandit scales, those ruthless and unfeeling laws, or those draconian standards….
such cliffs and abasements, so thrown into pits, laughing while feeding
morsels. our Jerimiah index, our Isaiah flame, such ministers desirous by sin;
our sheepskin sackcloth, our robotic responses, plus, our rebellious foresights;
such by compass, giggling with friends, over something terrifying our children;
to ponder naively, at our daughter’s silence, where adherence doesn’t suggest agreements;
probing and clashing, for raw meats, such substance in freezers; those unslaked
fevers, such overwhelming rightness, while color is so precedented; for never
our souls, but ever their souls, while forced to accept treasons; at friends
studying chaos, at fury starched by confusion, or famous searching for clarity;
our graves calling, our bodies aching, our selves thrust through; this tune so
ordinary, our volume so executed, where some walk their crucifixions; to have
such access, to lose such power, where words are shot to trash bins; our lamenting
luxuries, our conversing laxatives, so cured, so undetectable, and so cursed.
It becomes
love, as long as, withering and fretful. Our windows at dawn. Our saddest mesmerizations.
So anti-color, but ever so colorful. / As taking routes. Looking at something
peculiar. Adored so much as acceptive. / This sickness. Holding something
unpredictable. Such holiness while things are perfect. / If but a problem, it
must be similar, thus, we commiserate. /Walking our deserts. Feigning our
oasis. So accustomed to claiming Athena. / this easy battle, tattered and
unsullied, but cleaner than color; so confused this way, where one is bad, but
wretchedness touched so long ago; a furious vessel, a furious prevaricator, and
so much riding on that voice; as prepared for Legos, running our dearest
offices, as multipurposed tornadoes; our spider senses, screaming at something privileged,
while it has become the family ‘norm’.
