western
chants, gin with chips, a few less inhibitions; as rarely unfrank, but propelled
by a linchpin, a bit dirty but honest; to adore spirit, to laugh in spirit, to
see this impending charm; so difficult with you, but relaxed in you, while root
to heart an arc through you; this woman thing, as no other creature, if but to
win with deaths such loyalty; our founding guts, our ruts and rulers, while
Love sits so imperfectly; to drown in you, to want for ours in us, while dead
to silence those eyes; our tender balance, this equilibrium, so hectic, and so
fragile; but resilient womb, a complete koan, to feel so supernal—as days fade
and nights intrude our calendar—we mesmerize, enchanted by destruction, such
humans needing furies; those long threads, such symphony to die, such river to
un-drown; this raft in you to become terrorized in you or pitching pebbles nights
to hating you; but Love is imperfect, for Love has died, but much more those
demons that repent; such western chants, slithering into location, your soul
pitch black purple: I try to see, as livid a creature, so taken with
inscrutability; my mother, Love, this child in mother, this son so much as
weary; to marry mother, to have child with mother, so sick and ruined but
lusting for mother; psycho-Freud, for one in blindness, this battle is
Sophocles; but Love is imperfect, such western chants, fevered and fed and frantic.
gin and dates, fibs and nibs, so feral and frank;
those burgundy plums, so sacrificed
for mahogany pink, while scents become aphrodisiacs; this thief by risks, this
flavor so syrup, and but herbs and dynasties this fair release; red rum, ex-addicts,
but dear with time we lose our pedestals; as natural in blights, as correct in
you, while others hold to an image you’ve forfeited; this mother in you, to
realize a child suffers, while maintaining silence; to die in me, as reversed
in me, to know with certainty a few racists; so uncured, so daring, while shot
and bleeding at emergency care; but Love is imperfect, and Love is a
grandmother, and Love has known too much of these colors; our bowels upon
concrete, our beasts but one breath, while agonizing so near to saying those
defeats; as first with daughter, and then with mother, plus, a husband thought as
so unfair! this lake screaming our destinies, this battle for mixed couples, as
insistent someone gives up a large chunk; but Love is imperfect, and Love was
made to know, and Love dies while finding this living spark;
those craving blue eyes, so
disguised in browns, but Princess was such a political warrior; as it dies
swiftly, this queen-dom empire, this hazel green machine killed by existence;
such strobing daughters, looking for guidance, while told through something
that dies; those grandfather skillets, running into savior mode, as apologetic
for feeling such anxieties; our bolder secrets, while wishing for perfection,
or at least an attempt; so teal blue in this land of Jazz while hibiscus has
painted our town of slavery; so remote in me, so displeased with me, but how
would you die?
I
speak in trenches about women I have loved where one is trenchant a deep
lesion; as first so mystical, I could die happily that second, while Love was
roses in our pillows; seabird reach, across oceans and brains, at fuchsia eyes;
so many offenses to hate a poet dearly but father doesn’t know those strenuous
plights; for a young soul those graves cutting steel where Father had no reason
to salute castles; our paramystical souls while enchanted a smidgen our hearts
rarely subsumed; but Love as imperfect, so glorious to me, to have never loved
as those months those few years; she brings out goodness, while trying for
immortality, so sensuous a delicate something is dying—our topaz promise, this
mating and loving, where a child speaks its delicacies; those hours purified as
something crucial where no one knew we felt, if but for a second, this
reasoning called, Love.
