I was
eyes like my own, or pain like my own, or death so similar to life; this fuse
in my bones this gristle in those smiles so aloof to my own; this dead river those
dry carcasses our rebirth or incarnation; to die and float to arrange like
ghosts so inconspicuous in this big nosy world; so exaggerate fused in speeches
like one enlove with Freudian myths; so polite with you while estranged from
you for I have only met parts of you; this hunger deteriorating us, this booth refilmed
in jeopardy, or those days just longing like a maniac; at filth and brilliance
at music and massacre but it has been so uneasy looking into pure expression;
our bronzed fractions our Nazi infatuation and realizing most do not scrutinize
love; this anti-composure this frenzy in lungs while screaming and raging if
but to convince the sun; this anguish to adore you this sweet paramour as
creatures bleeding its organization; but love is disorderly and love is fragile
where souls invert and come to deadly features; such rites to crave you such
permission demanded from you or so wild a man loses what respect was adrift; so
Jungian our archetypes such blather screaming affection or lost for screams and
deteriorating; this angst in miracles this feeling in nakedness as feathered
and tarred and looking normality; if but too surreal if but that smile while
broken so deeply it discouraged our screams; as young animals where it would
never exist this tension while never such love; so frequent in passion, so infrequent
is measures, while frequencies are over the shivers; thereby so trenchant in
delicacies, a trefoil and bandits, alert and fuming; this decreasing fury this
arising majesty or at some private locket. (I feel primal like essence in rocks
while dirt and mud have witnessed our return; this slippery mountain to have
claimed Love where agony adventures a different cadence; but passion was
electric dazzling was harsh and the ache for righteousness was ruthless. I was
tears like my own, or fever like my own, to have found one deceased like my own;
by pulse at midday and wandering a strange environment so little to imagine;
where nothing the infidelity, but more the intimacy and lies, while a man meant
to suggest everything; those few moments so calming and pressured, where a man
sees the best in humanity; both keel and kiln as regrouped our hinges re-screwed
our brains forming walls; this maze by gravity, this isolated feeling, while a
poet is often a solitary creature).
I want
lightsome this carefree atmosphere while forced to remain on guard; this
frightening reality, this chamber of agonies, but such piety in our mermaids;
to realize by aloneness this space giving creation where we need a quasi-replica
of our intense drives; manuscripts and prose, novellas and novels, or screenplays
and essays; as shunning creatures or august creatures if strong enough to carry
the title; woolen fabric abrasive pegs where two people are quite interesting;
our hankering nuances our ritualized rhetoric or such risqué habits. I have
cared for one I have shared with few but I has lost many; this time-capsule to
realize in self those deeper deficits; for it can’t be this luxury, as ever
those peoples, where one is vindicated mysteriously; to want like I see, or to
dance like I anguish, at something so terribly free. Such rich mineral—ore and
debris—as souls wrestling invisibility; such daylight in you, as not to place
holiness on you, while asking for aloneness in you; those persiflage sorrows
our anxious future or so ensconced by something giving you light; our quaintest
woods those quiet trees those talkative leaves—to find us or to die like us at
something so tragically beautiful like us. I have said so little but have
captured in parts this craving to commandeer our constellations; those odd
friends as if to have walked earth insomuch to brave aloneness: writing our
thoughts arranging our sensories as we tether and toil.
