this
metaphor by existence this hut of wild begonias those tropical fruits; to
outlive ambition, a tragic reality, while maneuvering through caves; to meet a
Gemstone, to caress those feelings, or to walk away; this spark is critical
those emotions must arise while both are familiar with processes. I was sated
by Love those deep dark dungeons this frantic filming project; debating
gestures, mesmerized by laments, or studying some elaborate expatiation; but
life was wounds where wounds are memories and memories become struggling
tentacles; to play father’s cards or to domino with mother or at granny playing
solitary; by a woman I loved, this mothering distance, while liquor seemed
natural.
but a Bugatti dream, a
Ferrari in panic, or a Splinter split in flames.
but a tragic sky so
dearly aloof while watching emerald souls; at several deaths to happen upon
sheer beauty while unrealized Love was trauma-based; those fortunate seconds,
those secluded avalanches while something uneducated was exploring or
unbuilding. this running Trace this existential dementia as the blackbird
screams; quartz and crystals while she sits in stillness unaware of those final
few distressors; but African jade or European turquoise or Egyptian sunbathing.
to create a lovebird or to unjam a lovelock where minds are enthralled by prana;
as farewell creatures passing into oblivion where a man might give a woman
her existence; a bundle made havoc, a creative artist, or this life-giving metaphysics.
I
was dismal those nights stirring molten ontology
possessed
by smelting fragments; Love was gone
into
my nausea where unnoticed habits suddenly
seemed
to be missing; this deck of cards this shuffle
our
desperation our chains; but in such souls this terrible beauty this horrible
awesomeness; to topple by ‘transmitters, for a soul is activated, where tongues
and appearances become affirmations; our gates opened our tears wrenching our
guts our minds traveling ancient ancestors; such documented laics or
conversational lilacs while a man was invisible to everything watching.
I
will suggest forgiveness, even non-cleric oblation, or something closer to
absolution—this tender freedom, such bubbling cards, where construction depends
upon forgiving self; such baffling nerves, such bewildering wealds, where genealogies
are inconsistent.
