Where
have you been where the green fire delays? Such pure suffocation such gradual decline
where wilderness is traumatizing. To have adored you or to have won you while
drastic feathers carry us away; our deeper contempt for both skies and rivers
so concerned with our image; to ask for sweet jam, in exchange for dry roads,
with a heart content with imbalance; such dead feelings such old feelings such
warmth by coldness emotion. If but to redress where clients show deference and
doctors lead by example; or to adore a soul to love mind by body but never to commit
to this warzone; our delicate symposium, our feared violins, if but to adore
you so much I relive you; as sharing this piano or stationed near trumpets or
casual a cry screaming at triumph; to have adored fervently to have sinned with
depression to have lost numbness becoming gravity; this shirt shredded these
pants reneged or this hat suffering from fatigue.
I had something
raw if but to lose innocence by life or scar or saxophone; such high voltage
where it meant contempt for one wrote something and it never went away; this
cold moon, these desert swans, while we awaken daily to bliss; this cage of
intensities this battle to change (clocks) this grandfather set to such
routine; if but to rescue once but this becomes comedy while literature is
traumatized by our eyes; such a dear vacuum, or a radical flute, while she
adored anyone; to ask a question, concerning passion, if it must be plural—why play
commitment? this paining category this spittle at duty or this curse where we
mask by religiosity; as such wholesome creatures, a person’s affections, to
adore one’s breath.
It
was late into discoveries but the trial was set and it was too late for new
evidence; Love lied and Love knew it and Love was damn-well pleased; such scorn
in souls such lute and harp and death and balance; to loathe our eyes to smell
our guts to smile at the guillotine; this fair maiden this ruthless creature
while many are playing niceties; if but to touch if but to inhale if but one
destiny; such courage to speak such erudition if but to capture one so worthy;
but a person’s guts but one’s intestines, if but to travel into mysteries.
I have
become you with roots in distressors while fiddling with ink pens.
I opened
a drawer I unknit a cadenza and I soared to cellos and tambourines; to tiptoe
your dungeon to wander through your pain—a woman so affluent in life; to fathom
something unkempt, this notion in this mirror, where one is disdained but one’s
opinion holds weight. This fraction of our skies this ribbon that apex while it
wasn’t enough; we needed more we desired fire it was a great ride—touched or
tainted.
Over that
countryside there lives a deep mistake but it has infuriated wisdom and
concern; this low-estate this class of peasants so lost so dear such plebian(s);
this common thought those common conclusions or redeemed and sudden for
ostracism; to need a certain level to play this viola or to laugh by cymbals;
those grave ideals this rope so snug or this kitchen so absent it feels good;
our rapid concerto our allegro hearts so content with causing disruption:
those traits undeniable, those skills and Airforce eyes, as we become so cold and
calculated.
