I
dare to trespass
those
regions as a smile might
ensue
so
laborious so inscrutable or too wretched for clarity;
our
mis-happenings so metaphysical while two manics afar a country met in mental
matter; nor was life premeditated, nor were songbirds awakened, nor were
grackles completely on board: to insist in quadrants to ask forgiveness or to
wrestle like young lovers:
our guts needing caliber
our souls alert and sneezing while old flames haven’t undressed abject
behaviors; to shun our minds to run from our feet at something called life
gripping our hands; but Love was imagination and Love knew her existence and
Love seemed masked by sages. Nor was art beautiful nor were muses unavailable
it became anguish as an entity; to disdain a prideful man, this element by anxiety,
while death was sweeter.
so
accursed or axioms haywire while his brain in stubborn; this frightening
reality this tug at six senses
where
actuality spells something distasteful; for its agency is unwanted its dreams
are repudiated and its math is askew; but long that fire this unborn fire while
an infant boomerang has leaped into comets;
our
damaged fire our loquat summers at brushes and angst adored but unvalued.
I
remember faces this island walking alone and sung in gut and material; our
disturbing behaviors so close to dear repentance where wolves are asking, Are
you alright? such terrifying insights to imagine your sized brains as a
creature with over a zillion stems; our psychic skies as electricity carries
its telegram our codified explanations; but a naïve man at a naïve post while
he believed in totality and absolutes; such beige concrete those hours running
wildly as never this dominion; such thinking souls such awakened souls while
recent dreams are scattering brains:
our intestines
maneuvering our ether unbending those tubes and lobes and dynamite;
so
chanced as unraveling so geared with one truth in this pit of roses I could
never commit to silence;
as
crucial obedient creatures so enlove those other sugarplums at something too
frantic to ignore—this deepness illusion this radical delusion but properties
seem definable;
while
earth is suffering by subterranean currents our used bodies are asking
questions;
but
a man in sun-skills
or
a charm in red seas
so
captive and so desolate: our destitute winters or so afar a thought would
linger—those bags filled with rubies those ceilings laughing at us at something
unknitted—
at
something bluish and uncertain: those
ranging
trombones those clanging tambourines or sudden into eyes that are screaming for
freedom.
