White wine hips, deviant times, I was an adolescent. I’ve met souls before: seductive art,
winepress buttocks, forever a scream into ecstasy. Many wondered over composition. “He must
be fried.” One, like an eagle, watched as it hit manifestation. By hate to love. By love to dismiss hate. By
faculty to sense crookedness. A
spirit in a dream—looking at her, so sad and beautiful, such contradiction, too
strong to get closer—the fields on flames, the skies with windows, the floors
with doors—if to die like goodness, to achieve with rightness, at Love like
arriving is existential. So pungent
the odor, many nightmares inside, coming across the one I hate, only to feel
saved by her aura. Another is a
paradox. Another is a reader. Another wouldn’t violate God’s tenets.
Much warmth—devastated
inclination—chained and uncouth, restructured and accepted, with a need to
dominate the force as it oozes out; bled in purple, an elephant we nurture, a
whale we cater to; chainsaw hexes, ponds breeding platypuses, an ox next to the
farmhouse; a filled man, analyzing what I can’t see, assuming and presuming,
with Love trying to prove some radicalized point. Red wine necklace—can’t escape, most
things come with a destiny. If I adored the more I received, the pain would
become its dynasty. Only by pictorial
pleasures, if in airs, to capture a glimpse on a whiff of passion; did wrong,
connected for eternity, never one dared to redeem their palms.
