I was
inordinate, unlike most people, where I’d look for monsters; right in that
person, such fierce clouds, such poisonous skies; those uncanny hermits, those
holy albatrosses, those black-tarred oceans; but so distracted over terrible
beauty where a man is searching for clarity; such Asian hips or fluorescent chests
with legs or thighs screaming as centerpiece; our frontal poses, our dreary
lakes, if but to arise at something incredible; but unaffected that way, but
dear to deaths that way, while we watch how we pair with others; arid winds or
city loneliness, so crucial or unchanging; (to envelope soddenly or to crave
salaciousness while so sick infidelity is dismissed); but cursed concrete but
murky horizons or orange speckled with human blood.
I held a baby so
to hear its heart where memories spent and days were honored or illumination
passed it back; this deep windedness this interior wasteland but so precious
grappling air-flames or reaching for darkness; our greater thirst, such
innocence, while we debate those souls; so frightened to exist, for life is so
unholy, where one pictures complete bleakness; so cursed from birth, until a living
human, sprinkles water with a few words; to wonder about scientists, to become
so angered by them, where if it is pure faith—we have a time honoring it as
concrete!
She took
holiness, and dishonored it with malice, while trapped in her predicament.
Such
sour doubting, while we become stringent, as requiring so much in order to
resist; our starchy garments or clothe bleeding in order to give our solemn
wishes; to drag our children to purify our losses while many live vicariously;
(but a feudal man, or an unethical woman, where one would permit fifty years to
a lie; only to come with truth, where one is dying, if but to rid self of its
debris). This metal meal those ghostly wolves where a deadman becomes gossip.
The pleasures of
love, or the greatness of forgiveness, while lovers are running a marathon; so
battled in us so crucial in guises while a man would like to pursue his
screams; those padlocks or sockets this flame internal or days on a settee
wandering through a darkened aura.
I live for
something unusual, this want for another’s inadequacies, as we grow into
weather; like leather or climates, like birds or eagles, to soar like angels
this tarred sky; or Agnus whispers or Keri cries while a man is starving for
trust; such vintage remorse such killings softly where a man never gave way to
becoming loyalties; to narrate my life, strung across pages, while a novel has
revealed my sins. This runt of a seraph, such gila-minds, while a man is crazy
for reptiles; our leaves unveiling our pavement screaming or our meadows holding
secrets; where trees yell, or sap bemoans, while a word throws off a given
sentence.
Ghosts
are trapdoors. This hallway is tarantulas. This synaptic gap echoes. While we
absorb phantoms, the ambush is perception, where life has become surprises: our
lizard tongues, our forked confessions, while we know if decoded people
might run from us!
