…mystic
purple eyes, cyan lips, and pink memories; cognac those days, ganja those
nights, and mania come morning; or maybe differences, something hypomanic, reading
into destiny; an old year, a new light, fiddling through retrospection; as
never so orgasmic, while never so visceral, at depth and tear; glass slippers,
or adultery signs, or so honest no man is privileged; to paint as we see, or to
paint strangely, where a chin possesses an eye; this tower in ghettos, this
blank passage, this daunting belief; at names and origins, at travesty and
apology, while Love is quite bisexual; outflanking, roaming cotton, or refilmed
for a tragic scene; such legalized infidelity, such length and days, while so
honest skies are rolling….
I speak
again, I walk lightly, I ask for something difficult; I write about condition,
I dismiss an old hatred, for something desires breath. I’m at earshot, Love
is looking, while stating times are slow; our faster women, our endangered
women, while souls are claiming ownership; to love is to ache, to converse is
to feel, and to illuminate is to realize; a nudging songstress, an in-rising
cadenza, while looking at oaken trees; midday Blues, something jazzy
percolating, where three emotions might hit simultaneously; kindhearted
apologies, a gaze asking forgiveness, while we contemplate our daily
requirement; such routine anguish, while never so consequential, finding our
souls upon red carpets; a quickening circuit, arising in gloom, repeating a few
chants; edged to exist, watching old movies, mesmerized by such consumption;
such fortunate seeds, to arise in self, as a living symbol.
The opera
summit, timber sparking, a glass, a dream, pure writhing flesh; so exciting, so
driven, matching man’s wits; such blissful tragedy, such falling joy, to have become
that one person; eyesight exposure, miracle toxicities, or reneging taxonomies;
to wander gently, telling petals, If but one last dream; zooming into
focus, adored in locations, while fevered to die here; scribbling insignia,
looking at inseams, from to come, an existential library; too raw for heaven,
to cold for hell, while needing much more; so suspended, right there floating,
amazed by imagination; those millponds and hills, this desire for excellence,
where boundaries have been set; to test, tease and tempt, while circumstance
challenges longevity, as souls collapse, reengage, and cauliflower; indeed, a
bit such language, a bit such luggage, in need of invisible doctors; our
confines, our configurations, our frantic condition.
…idealistic
consumers, subject to objectivity, as active, actualized agents; those souls we
cleave, this remorse we sing, such as purposed to exist in darkness; our
laughing hearts, our days so sweet, while nudged by malaise; this feeling, but
beauty just spoke, and life has become dread—bucolic scenery, magazine eyes, or
a statement so loving it hurts; cynosure delights, or cynosure reminders, while
snatched by our concentration; a subtle battle, such deep anxiety, where our
grounds have waged war; such fretted speech, such delightful anger, our
tragedies becoming inmost existence; but Love is cameras, and Love is fleeting,
and Love is contradiction; as here forever, so inclined to suffer, such rage
over innocence; more industry, or more words, while cherry apples dance and
speak animations….
This
federal task, this whistling compass, to gaze upon such vulnerability; at
curious propellers, our helicopter hearts, almost as crazy as love; while
something happens, a train is at full capacity, this inward city bumped into a sky-quake.
