somewhere
in there lives a magician as warring time or circumstance—so casual or aborted
where mother was surprised to feel me. a kicking feudal a mini-warrior so
indebted to father—our black moon our tender births such a c-section those
miles gunning if a rocket to explode while Love was too gorgeous. it wasn’t the
beauty it wasn’t the intelligence it was the numen in you. as criminal
spiritualists or wrangling scientists where Love there is a channel marked for
abrasions. those terror syndromes to have loved like dying or to speak into a
bowel of tongues—these frenzies as electric to have succumb for hours into
ecstasy. it would be goodness to have for permanence such sweet debauchery:
those filmed movies those excerpts in intestines or a private cinema gone
viral. if but to give a seed, a dear child, while I die to sense those brains:
our guts in heaven our daughter or son where I might participate. such a loving
creature to alarm my mind where I cry looking upon innocence. so much forever
so thwarted by doubts where a soothing therapist those eyes and screams. to
have adored first glance as a crazed author so much into delirium. by passion
to know fury by grace to bounce back where a man could fall enlove with any type
excellence. an earshot into dementia or a grave wrestled from Jaws if
but to taste by violence such ruthless defeat.
