by
torn banality but high chakra—our heart-raves blazing at senses racing in
mid-molecules; our cultic-atomic-air-particles, so adored for living or so
forgotten it aches; to come to spatial passion, so accursed for regularities,
and so affected by mental residue; a burning cathedral our nuns meditated our
minds pierced by margins—to sudden into euphoria at rapid ecstasy so close to
one so divided by two or so cursed to abuse privileges; such ice and
cubic-cultic triangles, such rectangular mystics, at yogis, plus, intense poses
those lines shooting into atmospheric energies; so harnessed such a sachet our
liquidity our music—if but our bodies if but awakened to sense ritual if-ness.
so
damned by this person or taken by essence where reality is our interior
structure; but such a ghost our deeper discontent and hassling with relativism:
(it was vexing and vaults opened and misty villains where measured; phantoms grew names and apparitions broke mirrors while a man was assisted by essence; this
shock to feel your river this meta-sky-fire at something too irregular to speak
it clearly—those chains those cedar-mental-boxes at tears to have become
unknitted).
I have understood
failings while needing comfort but left to winds; wending and waxing and
wailing and silent at something salient and confusing—those blue ponds those
geese and nothing satisfying to pledge. we appear someway looking for solace or
a palm in such resistance; as desire increases we rummage islands while
plummeting into this third-brain abyss; such miracle darkness as piercing
inversion while to become so bright we trip into murky swamps; these frantic
feelings while framed by angst where one is sung to dynasties; those convenient
allergies this otic compression at metaphysic measure; to adore what science
contends or to ask about those other experiences where a mind produced its own
phantasm.
I unlocked this box and
granny came for dinner where signs pointed to darkness. I moved sideways and
positioned a cedarchest that base drawer held a dozen keys.
it was unborn insistence
a cave with essence something creating a space of irritation; if but to look at
Love to feel this insurgence as it races into some manifest; our dear
frustration, but it was manageable then, while now outlets are waning.
we see essence in waves
we paint with existence where one might feel anger; as not from winnings, where
others die, but from loses, where third-parties feel miserable; this acceptable
sorrow, while winning, this irritable sorrow, while needing more; such gaps in
life such forces in life where we feel uneasy and unexcited.
eyes sense their
perception while listening to wall pressure where pain becomes instrumental; at
a particular need while dealing our cards where some realities appear unvetted;
but I speak about ghosts and phantoms or winning where others watch and feeling
miserable; for sorrow becomes our challenge, our triumph, our trumpet.
