I
go astray attempting niceness but creatures are outlandish—this fuel bleeding
this blood blue garment as one alive but suffering contention; our monstrous
feelings our dearest dejections while falling for ruined or rising for ruined;
our mystic women this mystic church while mystics remain underprivileged; so
accursed in you while speeding glasses through you as shattered fragments in
you; if but to adore like poverty so impoverished and running where one pays
for something he didn’t associate; our blatant castles at rights unfamiliar
while a goddess is hashing rules; if but to love madness this irrespective
chaos where frequencies became haywire; those days splayed as torn asunder
where resurrection is but hope; but passion is egress where midnight is travel
insomuch to touch hushing infinity.
—it
defaults to love, those roses in saffron or prettiness in sufferings;
—to
die tender feelings where wealth is beautiful while a man must say only
beautiful things;
—this
splice and curse this feral animosity insofar as life couldn’t be entirely
gorgeous;
our guts swishing our
interests tugged while exonerated for ignorance; but why into this achieved
adulthood where anxieties freedom our terrors; to harvest and croak to cloak
and desist while one might laugh heavily and maintain her course; this fretted
image this pure venom insomuch as veiled in domestic sexualism; never such
chaos as one deeply abject to hate for purpose while denying insanity; our
fretted vows our hypocritical deliverance while likeminded tenets can’t sharpen
knives.
I
sense disagreements where a poet goes too far but life has never been strict
cohesion; this color card, I put it to rest, while, nonetheless, accursed and
accused of its presence;
as
failing phantoms in this gray margin while colors are seeping in; our broken
feelings our shattered skies at something too terrible to mention;
while daughters are
observation and fathers are front-line and mothers are sympathetic; to picture
like grapes, to die a woman so afar, or to love and adore something running
fast; this tender reflection this mirrored self to realize something offered is
not something treasured.
This
pushy sea those disobedient waves while a man is trying to surf; our trickling mind-bent
this wind as ache-sent to arise in deep determination;
those tragic lenses while one
admires prose if but to maintain distance from said prose:
such curious fathers to imagine
something unvetted where anything else is tormenting;
our terrorized
expectation as so close to detriments where one says it must be beautiful—by
every jot and every line; this rush by impracticality, this unliving feeling,
insomuch as daughters are siding with inculcated gnats and flies; indeed, a man
with motive, a secluded and visible expectation, while coyotes are studying his
countenance.
