I love
you, for no other reason, but I love you. I adore more than me, sought in self
and delivered near ponds. Such as deadlines, abused by privilege, while father
fell for imagination. Nor did I silence, this ghoulish rant, so accustomed to
converse. But those advantageous genes, those dreams scattered by fragments,
our ramped arc, our heartless darkness, our scavenger bones.
I cuddled
gasoline, while playing with matches, so inclined to visit our social mime; at
casual screams, demented in parts, undergoing vigorous exemplariness; as a dear
confession, so thrown into battle, so tethered to a manic episode; dying while
taking breath, at war with actualization, but realized in something too weird to
come true; asking that life forgives, where souls need incentive, if but to
deign those high pedestals; guaranteed to sacrifice, even our voices, while
clutched over vomiting out our lunges; those days with ammunition, this self-growing
in age, while still I contemplate both entities; our psychological octaves, our
metaphysical conclaves, plus, your heart as subject to attend sessions; seated
in thumps, or feeling you here, while certain concentration happens those
times; needing to unveil, this phantom fever, if but to swoosh a confident impression;
as gifted a Swan, as seen in battle, where a tear befell a new dragon.
I feel
psychic around-ness. Where an image arises. But it may not be true. This vague
location, this mount in fantasy, while something unreal might be true. This bouncing
ball, this hard board, or this wall with a tiny crack. Our dilemma becomes
realization, or false actualization, while a mind is not concerned with facts;
intellect concerns this mountain, and reason attends rallies, while intuition
is subject to leaps of fancy; but Love was psychical, the timing was so ripe,
something innocuous increased in mental intensity; while a Swan was motion, and
a Swan is delicate, where a Swan sung so softly and died in silent
disagreements.
I love
you, for no other reason, but I love you. I adore more than me, sought by
circuits, when Love is sensing freely; to know I struggle, to feel your
indecision, or to reckon our eyes on this enigmatic Neptune; such Venus cadence,
such Mercury candescence, such Jupiter wittiness; So Capricorn this moment, so
Virgo those evenings, while carrying this childhood Scorpio; thinking about
this Leo-Cancer, wondering concerning our exit, if not to die feudal and
unforgiven detriments; those casual Sagittarians, this modest, undercurrent
Pisces, while Aries are inconspicuous fires; where Saturn is melancholic, or this
idealistic Uranus, seated by a philosophic Aquarius; Our mysterious Pluto, our whipping
Geminis, at pure unbalance with Libras; but Taurus in designed views, rising into
something florid, accustomed to particular rivers; but so annoyed, so bashful,
so better than she realizes!
I
feel psychic around-ness, where thoughts appear but veiled, while true intuition
begins flashing; better or bitter, such blight to midday, while mornings are
quite by clarity; our perception of life, our dusky horizon, or particles
flipping into binoculars; but a daffodil, or mystic dialogue, or a daughter as sculptress;
entertaining our ghosts, fiddling with a piece of candy, or hoping life is
wrong.
I cuddled
a young baby. I destroyed such innocence. But things weren’t built for
longevity. Our gallon of unbelief. Our dreams in other people. Or this design
for us to meet later; for accessories are existential, where one might need a
thinker, or someone experiencing this existence; this ‘thing’ is aching, this
rain in survival, where a Swan requires gristle and marrow; but life is
clarity, and clarity is so foggy, but life is its determinants.
