Don’t
bathe me in filth. This filthy upbringing. This filthy scarf. At mother with
deaths. At father so dishonorably. Or cooking a fifth of something gentle.
Encouraged about living. This interior topic. As cut so dear it became Jesus.
That thump violence. This weaker memory. At Love a mystic redressed. To
discover this vacuum. To unrehearsed feelings. While Yahweh knew a miracle. Is
writing desirable? Is life livable? Or better, is death a sweeter tender giant?
False intelligence. False intuition. While we swear by greater emotion.
Tragedies to live better. Comedy to being vandals. More imitation. This epic
misery. Our God’s dying. Our God’s falling to flesh. Those hopes. Those
screams. A fount splaying ambition. So keen to Love you. So keen to die you.
But beauty is dependent—plus, non-intellectual. (That first glance, absent of
properties, to dote and carry strongly). Judgement about thinking. Something
specific about rules. While a subject is subjective. Imagination or
understanding? So purposed to adore daughter. So neglected—a fig without juice.
If but to elate. Our Aesthetic judgement. Where fate is universality.
I
sin in thought. I erase thought. I sin again. This hectic agenda. Punished for
something invisible. Plotting or receiving a New Science. This metaphysic.
These language pains. While resistance is three parts. Such Natural Law—so
treacherously an Albatross—or tripping for re-veiling this age of humans. Our
blue barriers. Our pale envies. While God just shot her dice. Too many
emblems—debating hieroglyphics—while Egyptians are relaxed. Such aching pride.
Such beauty as irrevocable. As entering a woman our first valley. Too cursed to
die. Too sinful to meet hell. While hell is tricky. Our symbolic language. Our
symbolic gestures. While pure and discreet language is necessary. (This
interior vernacular—this haven of wives—while it felt death to become bliss).
Our
women at notice. Such to refurbish wit. Or to relocate education. Such domestic
appointment. Such virtue as becoming, Yes, Dear. Our magnificent rebels. This
bra hanging by its master. This fume in florescent. So filled with logic. This
blessing. This curse. While never able to keep pace. Out manly aches. So torn
to admit. This element so clearly. Our Archetype myths. Too infused to perish.
Our daughters. Our miracles. While we love with discretion. Too purple. Or too
radiant. Or too much a viable threat. So, Love live and Love die, and Love
regenerate: this cold war, this breach in Clinton, or this terror in Trump. Our
greatest Kings. Our Greatest lies. Where a civil world created existence.
Our
poetic logic. Our poetic wisdom. Our theological poetics. As men reliving. Or women
beyond surface beauty—so dear a thought to a man ambitious. Suffused in
daughters. Cursed for persistence. To realize discernment is a gift. Romantic
realism. Celebrated conversation. Or somewhere close to menticide. As lives a
ghost. In a daughter’s brain. While asking a particular concern.
This
woman so across—this decade of contemporaries—while deep reflection has become
favorable: freedom so essential, if but to evolve, so wealthy so soon while as
Germaine De Stael: our cultures enveloping, so exiled by Napoleon, or known for
establishing salons. As counselled Enlightenment, or running wolves, while a
woman is condemned for having lovers: this deep impact, our imagination
determining men, or fiction so vast is proves worthy of loveable.
