…so
much green scenery such gangly flowers such self-imposed frenzies; to adore a
light angel to course through veins as genetics rebuked; at purple fellowship
or condemned to worship where nothing is quite as satisfactory; our oxymoronic pleasures,
our pain in caves, at under-pressures; this night with nightingales those
mockingbirds while something is elated—this filmed person this creative smile
so torn for erupting and feeling turquoise; our first memoir as nudging participation
so accused of becoming myopic; those fleeing turtles or those rocks with snakes
while a grasshopper just leaped unto deaths; this flowing stream this season after
insanity so close and closed but opened for suggestions; our baffled arcs so
enthralled by a sudden current at circuits and candles afraid to adore a
roaming creature; to want existence or to need resistance if but this
instrument too steep to climb; our vacuumed hearts our sullen castles where a
swan is beautiful in drab clothing; this rich consciousness those petit
discontents while reality points to a man in his pit; begging for rabbits as
they pass by where one was apt to aid a losing machine….
our
tears with soap our sliding frenzies at somewhat a deeper inclination—to float
and fly to feel a person’s eyes at velocity and scope or hope and fury; so
mannikin in silence or such a talkative pantomime while gravestones are
recharged by integrity: This man of wealth this man with pride where a
mother despised his guts. Oh how shall you persist in this aguish of bliss
as coming faced with pure uncertainty; this space of ambiguity while mimicking
dominance where I have a hard time confessing this; or sweetness so raw where
it hurts we must as flowers in coffins pleading resurrection; this chaff and
dust or winds and deserts while one’s face in dirt and mud; to read closely and
looking for leisure so confused or so related—those arms un-reaching this
sailed song at temperance and composure re-gaveled for the chair; our permanent
eyes this foolish man while lust was driven into her brainiac eyes; those
softer grays this can of anxiety while cultured but needs sanding; so accursed
to live, so valued to die, where it loses all matter.
I’ve
said little to explain this raid upon minds where one goes so long as an empty
vassal; but gravel accumulates and sediments structure to awaken one day with a
lethal tsunami; such carefree moments as nothing could resist while feeling
like something un-terrific. I have known glorious beauty to arise from slumber
and realize such hate in the face they love; it becomes medicinal or something
requiring courage but most suffer the darkness of silence; to hope for miracles
and to pray for quickness in a land they are unfamiliar with; this hell haven
or this jousting javelin, unknitting kilns by kilometers; as creatures of
mystic value somewhat lost in a minute’s value where aftermath and repercussions
possess this screaming value.
I
close with stars and futures and dreams—to stagger at moments, maybe crucial
moments, where mother was there with a net; and maybe I deserve heartache and
vengeance or even ostracism—but claim darkness and travel hell and wrestle with
mud-hounds; this battle to gravel-zero, this helium where nothing is floating,
or realizing a dialogue unbeknownst knowingly; this plate of existence this
gnawing sensation while a Swan just needed a father; this fragment of diets
this deliberate participant unto deaths and preliminaries; if but unsung and
now with pliers a man is left to his mental breaths; but days were young and
soul cried if but one swanic hug.
