—terrifying
windows what lurks therein
the
tortures of silence; as abetting linguistics or
aiding
metaphysics where most fears are saints—
pure
arrival sentenced deaths or radiant dissatisfaction to reclaim nonsensical or
to aim at life while so disconcerted;
but
passion becomes its dreamer as life becomes its gripes while a person is
epistemic; this day of virtue this evening curse while adoring but distance; or
sullen soft
music
or harsher dark memories where invasion permeates the
fantast
closure.
I was unfastened.
It was by ghosts
named Energy
—where trembling
was necessary;
so much inactivity!
such contradiction!
I cannot
claim love in this murk weather while innocence becomes familiar; such havoc or
crystals or tigers this ceiling this phantom this woman as recreated or death’s
honor while it was so difficult to adore Pain. That emblem lagoon those
florescent ghosts while I trickled into your private closet; such trespass,
such reach, where Energy was having supper; our last carpet our first entrance
while no one needed that love; if but to manumit this freedom with chains this
paradox this Christianity this Yogic stress; to have come close as to touch the
forests by stillness and void. Our courageous
witness this chasing interior where over there Love is beautiful and Love lies
and Love is medicinal and Love is furious.
—idyllic ideals or
idiot savants while so inadequate it becomes stubborn silence; or a few
tragedies in one sitting to confirm a lingering hunch; a baboon running or some
hybrid snake while one pines for incredible; something to sustain the guitar or
something to give the Swan its inheritance while often it becomes lucre or
servitude while indebted for something that holds our winds—
I need to fawn as
often I refrain but what is fierceness without sexuality—those whistles
embedded this dreariness converted or so adrift it was mystic this loving curse—those
strings those percussions or acrylic aversion to settle this dispute as a
person with self or fire seems so intrusive.
—by enjoyment we
suffer this elaborate essence into writing or flying and soaring through
mind-caves or conjuring up old graves where the soil is rich the art is
sadistic and the reception is masochistic while unshod or studying distraction
where most are unaware of beauty and cadence or firebrand and fever this
interiority those gray-blue cries those brown inspectors or deaths for
remodeling as sacred seeds or gorgeous misery to deflate something such tender
excitement—
