Such
begonias. These method escapes. Those trumpet roses. / At a gentle raindrop. At
pitch black summer. And Baroque those seconds. / Listening to Beethoven. Or
reciting invisibility. Where a voice shot a phrase. / So tired by it. So
involved in it. While it must be me. / Not for empathy. But it’s happened
often. Less Our sentimentality wanes. / But a woman needs. And a man is
ornamental—where life possesses matrix. / Apogee agony. Looking but unseeing. Asking
but blatant feathers. / To visit a garden. To exist as bees. Or to love for
luxury. / So close they die. So feral they live. At deep silhouettes. / Our
decrepit longevity. Our neat offices. At rivers inside rooms. / Butterfly dreams.
While beauty offends. So absolute those palaces. / As never a scream. Or more a
stranger. Where love is paintballs. / Our splattered Pollock. Or caressing
strokes. While convinced something crucial. / Our minds. Our planets. Our closeness.
/ At carnations pausing. At garlands musing. Or given to one scream. / Our
deceased whistles. Or an ear of negativity. The same screeching daily. / Such a
plan for us. So vicariously. While love has become sport. / but tender symphonies,
outrageous sympathy, or an utter we-ness; our loses feeling terrific,
while tied to something graphic, where lies root into sky-redemption; our
beautiful destinies, our upkeep, where suddenly I’m beautiful. / This tale in centers.
This liquid in green. While heels are leaking sap. / Those mystical cries, a
demented segment, while lingering in possibilities; but offices are private,
our hours located, our passion at sun-rites; to perish in turquoise, to arise
in cocaine whites, where porcelain eyes spoke such shivers; our aches
bloodshot, our angels bemoaning, but bodies are devastated. / so perfect to die—so
underestimated to live—where pure escape is so but minutes. / This shared
atmosphere. This tortured elation. So ravished it feels close those chains. /
as cursed robotics, ever those eyes, if but to regain identity. / at something
vague, this endless gut, so forced to reinvent.
Syrup
to concrete. Imagination to abstracts. Nostalgia to first experiences. /
Twilight phones. Disrupted cries. While we really could know. / So tacit. So watchful.
This pain by pretend. / So dear to you. So revered by you. But enough has come.
/ Treasures in voice. Rivets in curses. And crystal moonshine. / Colored
autumns. Perfumed aromas. So desperate if but such beauty. / To die a smidgen. To
become non-feeling. About something giving feelings. / This life-force. Our
fastidious gowns. At interior undertakings. / by topaz expression, shimmering
gold daisies, or stars by aurous; to hear a tone, to alight a feeling, as
danced too long in night-glare; our confusing anticipations, if but to incite
something delicate, while offices are sun enchanted; (at slight hostility,
angered by conceptions, where guilt pours into something feared; as hitting
notes, or tiptoeing symbols, where a horn blared into out atmosphere; or so
systematic, so deliberate, where it’s hard to excuse behavior; for it comes by
intention, its transparencies, and it dies for gain; our needs so crucial, our
responses so crucial, while realized as something my part; as not for measure,
where unfamiliar blooms, while souls drip into light-sockets; so many years, as
closer this thought, or actual persons). / Our yellow behaviors, our strong
behaviors, while points are proven; if but to suggest differences, if but to
suggest an askew perception, while deep inside she may be suffering. / This
push towards obscurity. Or varying approaches. While prowess forever is
avoided. / So dear by mistrust. Such a tear for disgusts. Or so there it might
be difficult—to hate sun-rimes, or to erase Coleridge, but, nevertheless, too
far for nebula to touch.
It never
comes with grace. It seldom comes with taste. Our faculties abolished by chase.
/ So, indebted to many, esp., those pangs—as namely, our treasured miscommunication.
