By elixir by chalice by mystique—to have become myths,
to desire it hurts—surreal spirits, mind motion, distant lands make purpose;
shame drilled in, pain lingering by sewers, surprised to a feeling, linked to a
notion, to again fret tenets; certain fire, bells ringing, to suffer by
clemency. Oh Ancient Wound, made
of elasticity, too close in measure, reborn an instance, troubled by mixtures,
confliction, scheduled for dust, bone and worms. If nudged by emotion, if
sealed by forms, semi-lust, count self,
fortunate.
One will fathom darkness, another will relish in light,
others will vacillate between extremes.
She will appear, painted in allure, a soul will fight the
noticed.
History abused notion—savaged at gates, measured
against each taste, ice dripping, heaters and hearts. A map of social pangs, interior
government, like a computer—a program, repeating destiny, warring against
nature, thus, deep and dark depression.
Collecting energies, forming data, violins bleeding the blues—pleasured
to have met, pain to have existed, friendship to have died, wrapped in breath,
breathing infinity, to love like teenagers.
Alike
to media power, a bond bled of innocence, the worst of us, the best of
sounds—to try harder, to pledge our lives, begging for rightness … a curse in
its blessing.
Physic
freedom, to sudden in approach, spirit-video, goals made in feelings—to give to
each emotion, to try to hold each promise, swaying, seesawing, pressured to live
again.
Indebted to wreckage, in fact, as a matter of principle, to have known
in love—invincibility, polite damnation, greeting and sin; to suggest its pain,
a softer kiss, everything put into jousting, fierce nothingness, nothing means
so much, accused of sour fires.
Succulent medicine, human origin, to have elixir in its scream—announcing
its name by Morning Star—to consecrate excellence, a moment undying, unborn,
breathing its dimensions; cedarchests filled with foreignness, rugs in space,
floating becomes unreal: one terrible partner, one existence in dreams, to tug
and push best of its anxieties; old-fashioned chemistry, everything and dying
to love, nothingness and dying to live: love has her recipe.
Storage arts, frames, more angst, filled with paradox, favored in
contradiction. The way it stings, a tender caress, tongue dice, slithering in
perfection; speech on its highway, to say so much, with surreal language
webbing its arc. To have resurrected, needing fierce compassion, knowing her
dynasty is soul—a new sin, a beginning portrait, a banshee pleading redemption—mother
of skies, father of earth, sister of deepness—made in Wisdom, found in Heaven,
creative in progeny.
To give all in its receipt; to film good times; to hold each second as
dear memory, an anniversary in time.
Arguing over love, pledged to outdo each other.
