I
fathom this line with eight personalities those three got through; our blanket
of discomfort our familial underpinnings plus this music at those crying hours;
so born to fly such achievement and dice at this claim that appears ghost; our
imbalanced balance our mandalas with pain or associated with yogic rain; so low
into a travesty or arising by your fierceness at fire into something
frightening; this man with issues those appropriate responses to have a file
discharging particular accusations; that flowing dress so low it yelled where
chaos visited that session; a person in veils while unveiled by horror mirrors
and the psych stays at her pose; this fool with passion this undercurrent with
symphony at something too forgiving to quiet; that line is blinking this soul
is striving at courage a Swan those arts at jeopardy. I fly so into this rose
as unmentioned with chimes but a mystic taught by winters unavailable; but Love
was actions and storms blew magic while chaos is a tool for healing; this old
friend this old lover while hazel eyes are craving redemption; this curse in cries
this terror movie while an infant sips a popsicle; those raging kilowatts those
lightbulbs at something this poet never experienced; such revving chakras such
wild yogis where a mystic was barely at rivers; those phantoms to graves this
man a Passion slave while committed to analyzing something so knit it disturbs
to grieve; but days with bright banishments or nights with heart-sparks so
glorious to receive without providence.
I
have so little to give and I‘m learning science while some events seem so
clear; this ruse by distress or this genuine feeling so close to undoing
reason; or this deep nonchalance so anti-personality or one and just one this
day; this fleeing feeling, this frantic fame, at ferocious fragments; so autonomous
or so actualized and so near this break in sanity; to redeem radars or convert
chaos in this film fevered with guillotines; our cauldron with bones our gothic
midnight or a feral blast through direct its capture; alas, and gunning, this
tragic thief at tortures to have a star so close—those banquet rituals this
film in his guts while losing and laughing a tear to Jesus; our neighbors
watching our walls wailing this tenet explosive and soon at penchants—to scar a
nightmare or frighten a scarecrow while pigeons blind about one’s door; but
Love was uneasy and Love was ungentle and never a day for something indifferent.
It
was last night, I blazed a clove, and drifted unto unreality. I walked planks
and stood battle and laid down my adventure; it was hell at tribunals, so much
laughing hysteria, and lunatics asked too many questions; but there you
vanished in plain insult while back into a baby’s body.
I
need that gift I need those diamonds where reality becomes any damn-thing we
mixture; at terrible confliction, while treasuring confusion, at carrying tanks
and drumkits; to wonder concerning stability to ask a dumbass inquiry or
congested with sentiments; but never a shadow while petals to fall to untint a
strong injection.
This
sour-sweet or unmixed mixture at something digging at something in memory;
those years floating, for thus a major design, to have known so much and
cleaving to time; our past in shackles our hindsight but stethoscopes where
hearts are raging for chaos; or that easy suffering while reigning over
proclivities so accursed and so blessed it’s hard to exhale.
