I Get into Imagining Prose

 

 

Into a galaxy of treasures, those remarkable elements, trying not to approach you; such is failure, I woke up, the gut wheezes. So great in black & white, such troublesome winds when in grays. I rethink you, to presume a slew of questions, arms at regathering fruits. A few things in you keep me praying; entity mysticism, those years battling your name, such relation in foreign dismals. I was reaching, a casual fool, I believed in love, so anxious. Nice talk? I question nice talk? I hear it was once bliss, I wonder why all elements dissipate into vinegar water. Indeed. We need to hold on. Reality means so little. And Love serves a purpose, and it feels good, and it dies hard—those eyes to know us, to reach across a room and gaze into us. Such contradiction. I mean it that way. For love is first the world, aside a chariot, such prophecy, renewing one another daily. But more to some angle—some mystery, as denied in totality, as mused upon, as felt, to look into Love, to feel guilty, such human affections. Never you mind the distraction, I see configurations, shadows, I hear reasoning, I feel utter frustration. To imagine guts leaping, tsunamis anchoring, such raging hurricanes. Such to be used. Such to use in return. Or rather, diffused, as an effusion, pouring into an aesthetic. I would if it were in me. I have nothing for life but mystery. Life has nothing for me but intricates. A pilot of souls, meshed in making passion, to have tapped into a reservoir. A raven on the hills. A falcon swooping through measures. An eagle laughing and swarming. To know you. To feel ill-charged, to have loved unknown to magic. And Love was sickness, upon a measure, to swoosh through traffic, into a resounding blast. I heard him. He watches you. Souls are territorial. We notice nuances. We guess. We ask. We hear lies. Such improbable souls, such erratic beliefs, so actual into a leaping scar. I was wondering, like a damn fool, looking into being human, wandering a synaptic gap, and Love said no! Those palatial energies, those chi eyes, those tales of something incredible. I speak for self, as getting in age, to have given existence to one cave. Those eyes will ask one’s gut to evolve in winds. Those delicate hands will encourage a nation. Those pains will hurt in presence of love.   

Change

 

 

Let the drums measure the response. Such a heated room, such humidity, finding as we chase, a chaste voice, a decent passion, too much to be enough.

Trying to forget you, living aside an inner promise, so executed—those dreams that never perish, despite exaggeration. 

A man kneeled last night; a woman answered; they excel in glory. 

So exotic, such an appointment. Arranged to die again, in love with living: designed to give up the ghost. 

In a moment to fall into deeper lust: in a second to renounce myself: so indecisive. 

Let the beat dictate the increments, aroused in presence, disgusted with myself. 

In a heartbeat to excel at a kiss; in a childish moment to renege upon eternity. 

It was tambourines, a belly dance, gyration, a sullenness to a fixed soul; the seconds we shared; unsafe walls, to suffice in deaths. 

What have we given? 

What have we sacrificed? 

The blood is purple. 

Freesias Will Bloom

 

A weakening touch, such a delicate gesture, souls by a lonely teardrop; occasioned to adore promise, a man to dreams, waiting on church. So affectionate it aches, common love, nay, mastered delivery. 

If sweat is dripping, if the mountain is good to us, such daunting inquiries. Too lost to speak, too middle grounded to go low, and racing to see it. 

To nourish an appetite—asunder by flame, reaching to become tender: gentility. Unbridled insinuation; blind with you, thrust through without you, when rivers perish. 

Into topaz-turquoise fires; by mirror to tumble into panic; by reality to stand again. Each faculty fraught by tension, cupped in ecstasy, invisible to winds, aching to make a difference. 

(Nauseating stimuli.)

Tattered and tarnished, such a weakening touch. And uphill those vines, to put peach in ink, to put plume on paper. A damaged vessel, better, a vassal, violet purple, pain most royal. 

Such are to fables, a soul to his lies, a fantasy to its memories. Most refined. Held accountable. Dying in existence—rabid lover, cursed in Cupid.       

Winepress Ink

 

By instinct to adore, this is mesmerization. A man tries to live, by grace’s name. So thrown by winds, each gust tearing petals, the love would give. I’ve said so little, winnowed, tugging at oxen; a face in its voice, a man took to his plough, he kept looking back: disqualified. And if by instinct, it can’t be by promise, a world of familiar spirits. At home with one, like a decade afar from another. Ruins on high. Dungeons and dreams. To capture a feeling; to sail across waves; to imagine a descendant of gods; if to suffer fame, worried it dies out, tired of what he worked hard to achieve. I’ve said so little, baptized neatly, while it drifts, accessioned in eyes, to hope to believe in vows; begging against remedy, following instincts, at memories causing sensation—the cloud that cried, the sky that wailed, the vision chopped in halves; such skin wires, to have sinned against time, something shifted on that last round; to need a part of something eschewed; to gather a piece of gemstone; so much clutter, so much debris, and I would sit in midst of those with auras; a casual pain, a treading arc, such limestone deserts. It was life in us. It was treasures in miseries. With tales and rumors seeping into de ja vu. It will end one day—with darkness subsuming its prey; in returning to those made of spirit.               

 

I was sensitive to life, oak scribbling, bled into chaos. And it’s been a long time in deliberation. I, however, continue to muse upon destinies and language. In saying little, a phrase jumps out, as upon a thump, to wonder why one would hassle with one made reprobate—in keeping company, makes one ask questions: isn’t life in motion? Not to sound unappreciative. A cave in his mind; an elephant in her psyche; in hells, where it’s unpleasing, neither can quite attend to it; just antagonizing, striking at weakness, becoming in parts what remains uncaptured: tussling with mind tassels—listening in meter, such thetic arts, praising and debating what’s praised. By tender touch, made confused, trying to live existence—those walls collapsing, to erect a dungeon, at self in private; equipped for neglect, preferring anger, at one made oblivious to new personas. 

 

An explosive riff, as vowing to disgust, fighting against goodness, proud to live unvoiced loudness. Pure speculation. Preserved endlessness.  

Proud to have Lived It

 

 

The climate in dreams makes freedom. Alike to genetic goodness. Such tigersnake cries. Such harlequin screams; such rabid eyes. If man knew, he’d slow his pursuit. As long as it isn’t discussed, right? Unhappy happiness; unfurled frowns. It’s mazing how we might believe; certain in so many bottles. Brilliant beaming bitterness; new wine, new hopes, similar realities. Man doesn’t need nets, nor snares, life is ever catching up: read an aura, listen to silence, watch and let go. There’s a design underway, and present in arms, the impossible is always unmeasured. God was intricate in creation. S/he made it a certain determination. To reach heaven isn’t difficult; to master arts requires soul conviction. It’s not random. It’s not go-lucky. It’s deliberate. It aches. It denies itself. It holds with dear life. It kills itself to see cosmos unfold. Indeed, it’s easy to exercise all freedoms. It’s easier to damn the self. Raven shadows, stark madness, such power in correct living, such pain, such depth. Souls tend to anticipate goodness. In adoring you doesn’t make for its guarantee; in reciprocating doesn’t ensure said goodness. To lock arms, to need beyond measure, to worship inner church, these alone make mastery. Cyan clouds, deep meaning horizon. Like seeing one’s life presented at the Guggenheim. 

As Long as It’s Pleasing

 

 

I was suspicious of dreams, cautious of words. I was rebel like, conditioned to silence, thrown into arts. Such soft-spoken beliefs, beheaded for such courage. A man will either live or die; a woman will either sail seas, or take courage through deaths. The empire is under siege; warriors are subject to a quickened decline. And we talk about Truth, most of us discount it, desecrate it, quite selective. Hellish believers; a sickled soul, a seed planting soul, wondering why hate is an option. So categorical; such Utilitarian spirits, struggling over duty; the field of the bastards, such subtle theft, eyes moistened and red. Given life to what is loved, thus, cherished; destroying what fails to believe in us. One sure to win essence, pride, and respect. A man was surfing, riding waves, when a wale appeared; he couldn’t dodge it, it invaded his life, trespassed his index, lived in his computer; to have died like it wasn’t nature; to have lived like it was illegal; by angelizing something satanic, by demonizing said angel element, to settle into a foreign portrait. Never to have it according to fantasy; never to feel secure; over some picture distorted by nature. To wonder why a soul would be indignant; therapy might not be safe. I hope it was worth it. To the grave to speak against it. And listening means nothing; knowing means so little; one mustn’t show depth of discrepancy; too much to withstand.   

Yesterday Isn’t Tomorrow

 

 

Through ions of prayers the curse might uplift.

In seeing music, in sinning in private, in fretting esteem concerns, love might make a wrong turn. 

Love was signaling. It was quite a pyramid. 

Something died a little. 

Rivers rush into seas, if synonymous with souls: Love was colorfully gray.

A great maelstrom sets in as it dissipates: what is meaning, as in itself? 

Purified waters, wet spirits, above to see a sparrow. 

Luxuries feelers, sensing skies, if sin wasn’t first beautiful. 

Sweet nectar. Flippancy. Agitated winds. It will never arise to where it could be, parts of death have become the poet.

It will never again flow freely, it will perish unfamous, one will be proud. 

Soft sung sorrows; roaring ringing; forced into self-consciousness.

It will never be beautiful again, nor organic—it will ever be meditated. 

Let seeing eyes be charged with peace; meant to mend eternity: each soul undergoing existence.      

A Second Picture

 

 

Such beautiful brokenness, measured by a smile. Most of living seems difficult. If to go to that place, such terrific negation. Either cry for you, or die for you, all exacted upon spirit. I sense love was a miracle, before the great aching, some atypical reigns. I discuss what art is. Through neglect, I determine what love isn’t. In making passion an aesthetic light, I reach for a hand. No one as we assert; but everyone as we neglect. Life moves if we watch it, if we participate in it, notwithstanding, it keeps moving. I can’t define love, as an essential entity—prone against itself, to wander around lakes, to render a red herring, even well-groomed etiquette and ethics, such dear chaos. We say something is wrong when a bishop is held under suspicion: instincts. Whatever it decides for souls, amidst hilarity—we come to pardon reality. Waiting for air-prints; consulting heart-arts, language under circuits, devastated ear-souls. Motion was cherished; life was remedies, quite a paradox in authors, indeterminate moons. To adore with merely a glint of light; to reimagine each gesture, framed by an eager hurting. I lost something in each chase. I lose something in writing. Wisdom has proven a cruel instinct. I was ignoring emotion, figuring it made for deficiency, disappointed one could trigger responses. I promise if one captured motivation, it would leave one shocked. Upon a human chessboard, so great its riddle. Never learned until it was later, a sort of calmness, some sort of patience. When I met you, such a prolific writer, our contempt for one another, it was in us. With others speaking their hunches, I wonder why a need for evidence had passed away.       

We Whisper Our Concerns

 

They say, we never rest: once exposed,

It becomes infinitude. 

In becoming human, a soul lost sanity,

A tear to it, regathering spirit, 

Trying to smile unease away.  Love 

Aches, laughs, one could believe in her:

Surrendering to math, debating a

Poltergeist, at a feeling inside—numen

Exhaustion, sunrise glittering, 

Abandoned to a long trail. If to secern 

Between feelings, as with accuracy, to 

Determine into those made silent: 

Gravity & earth; dirt, tunic & prayer.

To see it makes it seem negative; one says, “It’s not like that.”

We ask about demographics. We push 

For memories, theories, existential 

Rinse. By the time it lifts some, one is 

Engrained, riddled, embroidered by it.  

Nevertheless,

To palm a butterfly, to see an aurora, to 

Catch a comet, to laugh without suspicion,

To share popcorn, indeed, we feel a certain way,

To know in self an ability—in becoming 

Sentimental; to kneel in consciousness, to stir

A feeling, to see a flower budding, to 

Sense a ladybug, to make a wish.  Life is 

Good in

Parts. 

A soul looks upon a newborn, afraid to 

Speak.

If it were made this way, it must have 

Meaning.

We whisper our concerns.

Underground

 

 

Legends of actual arts—behavior of human spirits. 

Feral minded, part tamed, part threshed.

The sin of wilderness, left to bushels—surrendering to time; battle of the brains, science of its religion. New World habits; Old World behaviors; we fight against schematics. Such insanity; to reach for something obscure. Brought into alignment, growing wildly, asking for one superior to fix inherence. 

I was looking at life, (as if I’ve a clear perception), reflecting upon human instincts. In asking self about reality, seeing what’s loathed in one’s arsenal, once debated, one art, self-denouncement. 

In an explanation, one undermines an audience, pointing to obvious pillars; artist to artist, psych to psych, counselor to counselor, or teacher to teacher—life is made easier, while complicated by unknowingness. 

Such self-detraction, such self-evasiveness—core habits, dying for rightness, humans nonetheless. The fight is becoming unhuman. In denying self, it might be purer, biblic. 

In seeking the best in souls, in outliving the contradiction, a sort of sadness envelopes beauty.   

Pre-exploration

 

I wonder if lying is evolutionary, nothing too unnecessary, just an intense feeling, as it must be averted. Just a random thought.

By miseries came a need for sanctification: we already knew that.

We talk about revelation, private convergence.  For many—the portrait is misunderstood. It’s elusive. It deserves to be discarded. Others say the portrait is royal, divine, in need of veneration, even worship.

The portrait is indifferent, unaffected, at points, in a soul’s mind, it mocks, holds spirits in derision. 

Far too vague. The portrait is invisible, and human, mostly divine. The portrait is fraught by controversy; it excites in souls a rare type of holy anger.

Humans keep outdoing each other—in pursuit of being better; ironically, the majority are paying attention. 

The portrait is gentle. The portrait is congenial. The portrait rarely vocalizes its presence. If a soul is wound up, some esoteric, unexplainable phenomenon might take place.

I was with a thought concerning the portrait—realizing a sort of disqualification; such murky waves, such shadowy soul-powers.

The portrait becomes reflection, those profound mirrors, filled with mind stuff.            

I Wonder about Your Therapy

 

I thought to confusion. I swayed between states. I gave life, through essence, to participate in pains. It wasn’t right. In all the fixing, get closer to self. The sun in his symbolism, asked about self, the deeply scarred soul. I wonder about you and your therapist. I wonder if the base core represents reality. The Ghost is in us. I despair to know it ached. As the song screams: “Nothing is ever enough.” I was ever skeptical: something to good persons. Let’s say it never churned, it never ruined us, let’s say innocence wasn’t damaged. Let’s just say that. Let’s say a bunch of things. Nonetheless, I wonder how you made it. I wonder if it still feels the same. Are we healing: are we learning how to dissipate intensity? Why is it this way? You can’t wait, and you can’t pause—in answering irrelevant questions. The focus is healing. Ask me about my distorted perspective; said such, because it slingshots intense doubts. Ironic; doubt shows up. And the contradiction is this: something meaningless to souls, means all the world to a few of us.  I keep wondering, seeing mannerisms, style, contemplation, to debate in self those distorted notions. How in hell will the autopsy read? I’m getting better. I leave folks to their domains. I try to forget you. I try to not fret over your healing. Such madness in us!        

Opposite of What Souls Expect

 

 

Behind curtains, to segue into lights, fevered to see it, an anti-need to address it, some elements are unapproachable, they never change. In life to ache over a stranger, to find there, realer existence, hoping to make it back to reality. I sense negation, as never to see it, to sacrifice sanity—holding beyond a grudge. I wake up feeling between. I look at Love and fret the greater hopes; amused they say, framed by insensitivities, trying to maintain compassion. And Love is charming: I listen to hear her; I walk away afraid of impending wilderness. To have believed—to have essence, wondering what in hell souls are selling each other. And Love wishes it wasn’t true; to charter against seduction, animated and failing. To hell with reality; one lasting tryst; encouraged to forgive what loathes itself. In pulling carriages, in riding chariots, in surpassing make-believe, surrendering to a crystalized moon. In never knowing one, like to experience disbelieve, grasping for dear existence. An inherited battle; a rabid crocodile; a need to reset Such wafting sunlight; and they have what was purchased, with dying at every rosette. Waiting as those dream, charged as one wails, stippled by insanities. I never push. It’s good to experience part of the best she offers. Walking into a horizon, eating by sunset, laughing over something delicate, if to bypass, its hurting. Accustomed to making sense of life, wishing nonetheless, quite disenchanted. Those days, when perfection was close, to realize, workers are worthy of wages.  

I Don’t Like to Speak of Love

 

 

We never asked questions, alive and livid, seeking miracles; the pain of evergreen passion, those broken dreams, such acacia and diamonds. I longed to exist in maddening arts, to die one fever into resurrection, if to arise upon a cloud, sipping raspberries. I was sullen those arms, as made for miseries, delicate heat, such was addictive. I must forget inhibitions. I must learn to outwit inhibitions. In life, love is rare, in makes existence worthy of its mayhem; in each dynasty came a fair queen, filled with philosophy, skilled as a geisha. I would meet, exonerate, and esteem beyond seduction; losing rights, angelizing to a fault, to have become detached, alert, and dismayed. The agony of ether, so compelling it churns, so particular one vies for freedom. A man to his shadows; a woman to her prowess; both trying desperately, both withstanding, in fighting to become existence with charms. I was with desire, in seeking goodness, a few errors in spirit, with love seeming impossible. I came across a secret: just enjoy passion while she determines to whisper. Fret not the happenstance: two shared the best of what they could give. I don’t like to speak about love, it comes naturally, as if something inherent needs love. When music sounds through marrow, when symphonies chime across frequencies, such dearness to infatuation; no one needs to hear it, it just is, and it hurts to love through madness, unto pleasures, and again.   

We Love Differently: Human vs. Spirit

 

 

Notwithstanding it all, life continues on. I wish us a joyful funeral. Let everyone laugh, smile, and rejoice. To cross into the Kingdom, to enter eternal life. 

I was first unborn, promised to return, let spirits speak. One existence, so, we presume. Some are too wise for a first trip. 

Looking for ancestors, mesmerized by flame; to call back, a phoneless life. 

Days in and days out—trying to perfect worship; far too much thought.  I wonder what was asked of me, unborn in motion. 

Does it matter? It means everything. 

And it must account for behaviors; to exist assigned to lies; thrown to wilderness, given and sent out to wolves, invested in one grand entrance. 

We stand aloof, making passions, longing for heavenly existence; perfected in one desire, we dare not call it lust, to feel like absent if it weren’t for spirit.

To wonder how we became militant; to adore fervently; to easily discount each other; some strange contradiction; one hates, turns a feather, and loves with fever.

  

I Wish It were Easier

 

 

False images; trying to balance love. Feuding with oneself. Asking for clarity. To need a soul to show up for self. 

I wonder, and I don’t know. Such surreality. Certain mind conception. In losing, in starting a new diary. 

Never quite complete, sacrificing life, fraught by anxiety.     Over steaks, like diplomats, forgetting we once loved. 

So proud of making sense of those darker regions.     Tiger eyes, cheetah paws, surviving by incentive, longing for an unknowable freedom. 

I wonder, and I don’t know; dear beliefs, bereft of pieces, fragments jettisoned from the ship. A soul will ignore an ulcer, being strong for another, making existence through another’s being. Her essence is powerful; her memories are vivid; her debate is internal.

Over Dom Perignon, like executives, to forget we loved each other. 

Such galloping; mental phantoms; for one to share her inner torments.     So many caricatures, to sort through oceans, at a fringe, remembering those eyes.    

Theology

 

 

The climate changes. The critic returns. Inmost discussions. In what direction do we yearn? Filled by appetites, desiring utmost freedom. Such ardent skies, golden feelings. A casual whale, an inner behemoth. To see parts, to feel fragments, touched in spirit. To wonder the crucible of theologians. Things we never utter. So many faiths at terrors. Too much to explain, not enough to relate. Many temples; many secrets. One imagines solace, what it looks like, entering a spell of dimensions. A soul leaps into orbit, finds a mirror, rationalizes until it aches. The soul of its letter—seeing as we journey. Many tales about enlightenment; we pass by caves, we enter pits, we notice snares. By sunshine, filled with illumination—walking gently. Never said what affects us; never claimed to be above it. Maybe a decent prayer, some light meditation. The climate changes. The critic is alert. In speaking about the author; in moving through wilderness. 

Opened Island

 

 

We watch the overseers. We talk to feel church. In making a point, we imagine many illusions. I remember it. She was consumed by it. There’re unspoken ways. To keep to wilderness, speculating, living indistinctly. Those terrible confusions; delusional labels. Such loudness; like a being responding; like bells ringing for class. To travel desert shrubberies, to listen to existence. Nothing is private; one made privy to caves—studying spirituals. By an ache, it’s more than mind, it fails in its resistance. As if we knew, in its impression, offsetting, part with excellence; as invaded islands, made pliable.    

By Humans & Unmeasurable

 

The last of the lights. It’s a lonely dimension, surrounded by spirits. To fret the magic, addicted to the mystic, fretting indifference. To remain in silence, part unsettling, if to mention dreams to an audience. Grappling walls with Isaiah, threshed by depression, trying to write like Jeremiah. Filled by kilowatts; looking at northern beauty; going through a neighbor’s baptism. The lights were unsung. One stumbled upon it, to reread it, to notice something peculiar. “The Kingdom suffers violence, the violent take it by force.” A dark, southern voice. As it draws out, reverberating, a bright torch, innocent gravity. Such allusion—surprised by inner activity. Captured by a scar. It took most of one’s energy. To love nonetheless. To defeat the ache with compassion. As ideals: sapphire prayers, Israelian tribes, African origins, European syntax: thrown into theoretical(s), compelled by practicality, desperate to defend faith—to each is a battle, filled by airborne feelings; inmost waves, taupe eyes, threshed, threaded, trying to maintain courage. Never to recriminate a soul; carrying my adventures, wondering what the next generation looks like—will lights appear? Topaz skies, forbidden lure, remaining part militant. So sublime, physically perceptible, it can’t be measured, it refutes its vehicle.    

Sighted Reasons

 

I find speculation is necessary. 

To claim it, isn’t as being it. 

I ponder you, as if you knew. 

I say it like it means a person. 

It’s vague, harmful, misleading. 

Writing is first free, becoming 

restricted, fraught inhibition. 

To say about love—doesn’t carry the weight it once did. 

Writing becomes complex—

a few crisp sentences. A self-conscious enterprise, 

compounded by factors. 

I search for ironclad reason to surrender to a paragraph

—as being totality—of light, of expression. 

It demands patience, innovation, 

spontaneity. 

By necessity to discover the unspoken; by inner reality

—if to align it with truths. 

Life demands two things: procreation and death. 

It was once simplistic. Souls began to inveigle

—to secern, to distinguish between the love of 

now, and the disappointment of future. 

In needing perfection, I ruin myself; 

in surrendering, I destroy ambition. 

To do anything to keep you; to wonder how love lives; 

surefire discussions, acceptance of infinity,

 dragons and tigers. 

Living by Other’s Eyes

 

With wild vines comes wilder grapes. I move to your pace, dealing with fiction, as it becomes facts. Sorrowing dragons, motion snakes, curious slaughters; to have a process, to determine a ghost, to have loathed one’s self; by anxiety and angst—by resisting what persists. A Taoist approach, to lean into motion, to unfold patience. A whole life in damages, to live without a conscience, if ever it were possible. Such raining cries; such southern obedience; aside an aching scientific. I was rethinking you—hoping—it gets reasonable. To see with perspective, accursed by darkness, it’s a contradiction. With raging winds, pushed and torn, so asunder into weather—those eyes will mourn once more. I thought about your husband—such compromise, to need to live a certain way; cherries with vodka, raspberries with gin, or nothing, sitting, maybe brooding. To have adored feeling; to fall in passion with dreams; or to walk away from self, made ascetic, looking at it all pass by. (I do admit it gets to a point, where one debates over determination. Presence shows for absence.) In the decision to give life to it, to need a certain essence, by style and grace, to intoxicate senses; made in part most uneasy, made in determination to open further, with life and days seeming unconscious at points. 

Communion Flirts with Infatuation

 

The affair is imaginary. It remains confusing. I sense it was aloft upon a cloud, stillness, inner compass, bleeding sages. Cadence means something, its language, its garden, floored for no reason. It was us, Warrior. I smile during a laxed moment. I wonder about why—such a need, such a fancy: it seems larger than that. Surefire essence, ambivalence, preoccupation, dominance and monopoly—proving an immortal realization. Let it breathe! Unlatched feelings. Mesmerized constellations. Astrological trespass. The Condition keeps pushing: unrelenting. By mastery: by pains. The affair is imaginary. To speak in riddle: the two realities are conducive towards infatuation. It becomes the fate of priests and nuns. Mind cloisters; pash and windiness; gusts and rooms. Put the curse back. Indeed, Jesus was filled; so was Moses. Each knew it well. To ponder Thecla. To feel Ester. To ask Veronica how the hem felt. (To be akin to Spirit—to feel fraught, can’t see it, to imagine distance, with spirit so close, whelmed about it, engulfed by it, like near rabid behind it.) To empathize. Looking as it addresses itself. Would I repent it? And Love sails airwaves, sullen into the intention, directing chi, losing parts, maintaining sanity, feeling quite different. The affair is imaginary. The meaning was inside: tacit vocality: to wonder if time is hurting, rarely stated, a small office, a soul spoke too much.   

Complex Voyage

 

 

In a simplistic world, it wouldn’t be what it is. But it isn’t simplistic. It’s complex combinations, depth distortion. Each is searching for meaning. Each is disagreeing with existence. The beauty of family, the wealth of essence, and we’d hope through times the treasury of serenity. By tussling through elements, certain thickened skin, suddenly weakened; society as it awakens, an office filled with dreams, an almond scenting—most terrific fields of sugarcane. It makes for wonder. It’s alarming. It’s a glitch. And it was deliberate. Through an umbra, running back to mirrors, alert to something growing, something dissipating; a man to his thoughts, sore tired of searching out excellence—thrown into it, lost without the training. Life is cryptic, more so than direct, something driving souls. A lady is motion, gripping success, traipsing a tightrope. By fretting many feelings, communicating to pains, one desires to divest self of ghosts. It was unusual. To prick incessantly, craving another person’s distraction. And Love is pushing, a paragon of arts, reading life as it’s stippled. Such seems simplistic. It never is. It actually aches, churns, distresses interior workings. By an avalanche, sanding edges, making errors. Each combination is guarded by padlocks. Each dream is threatened by happenstance. With learning comes a curve, an inner series of doors, a mind-window, a compelling mirror—to have dreamt about reality, fraught by intuition, mind-stuff permeating existence; and to claim love is a great reality, a stage of ambitions, one of life’s feats.  

Intimacy & Chance

 

The skies are harsh with silence until they roar. Such indelible impassivity. I understand a mirror is not literal, more like a caricature, a bunch of bundles, part atrophy of perception. In wishing in one direction, the poet overlooks beauty, passions, semi-miracles. So much invested in one second, to have overwhelming ecstasy, in wandering through an oasis: we might need that, as evidence; if it diminishes in intensity, we might feel hurt: no need in going to that space. The moon is symbolic, nocturnal, whimsical; upon a stream, into a shadow, aloft a feeling; such esoteria, such paining joys, so intimate, so neatly obsessive—the inner flame. To possess fever, to measure against life, to need pure essence, afforded one dream to seal. Partaking of a reservoir; conversing with ravens; speaking to bones, reminiscing upon ancient memories. I sense a mirror means much to souls, reaching for a reflection, falling into a pond. And Love will with fire the depth of skies, sweet indifference, becoming more of what troubles humanity; strumming an instrument, dying gently, each word missing by totality, each feeling needing closure; to compose a decent letter, in sending shivers, in adoring one’s muse; sunrise brilliance, souls in rapture, sheer excellence, those dear discoveries, those parted dreams.  

Change Despite Redundance

 

I was free-flowing despite unevenness. It is amazing what feels normal: brains mocking, spirits held in derision. By soul to connect quickly, by heart to utter, “I need you.” Such pious creatures, ever detoured, each feeling like an explosion. I keep a few to mind, an interior universe, I do not always agree, I do listen. Spirits are heavy on a throttle, needing each other, seemingly the seamy keeps balance; arms reaching, imbalance screaming, desperate to have it back. Needing confidence. Approaching lakes. Asking for fever, chance, debating miracles—in trying to forget those few rounds. Life is different as it moves. I filter through fabrics: I do not fly freely. It has always been a feeling … as it pushes me, as it contemplates upon winds, going and coming as they please. (I ask myself, in speaking randomly, when this is concluded, will I become you? will you become me? If so, will that sprinkle the beauty in the rain, or impair what was fragile to start with?) Such randomness—such free-flowing chains, a thirst for feelings, sensing halos, disputing what it denotes—what it means—in deeper regions. It must insist upon order of passions, redressed direction, even nights in rapture; free of relievers, all focused upon Divinity—pouring into Christ, delving deeper into what it means to feel joy.

Tampering with Illusion

 

 

What does it look like? Each dimension offers beauty. Older souls offer sophistication. Younger souls offer emphases. To need: we should ponder that. (Such a lowness to this song; damn near unbearable.) It feels baptized. 

I was looking at morning, mourning the fallen.  

She was a unique woman: blessed, sullen, putting pieces together, mystical, anti-religion, feminist, etc. 

She was well read, judgmental, elitist—I never had a chance, I meant to remember that. 

On to something else. 

Aesthetic necks. Hidden napes. Defensive hair. 

I sense presence. Consciousness is riddled. (I imagine an entire life uninvestigated, slow self-torment, watching, reading, feeling, remaining faithful: I’d opt out if possible: it’s too much.)

Such keen insights, such gifts to life, to hells, to love, always tugged, mental, partway there.

The record is stippled in spirit. To feel fire, to adore a phantom—knowing there will … as in never, to abuse self that way. 

 

II

 

Give a soul his mind. Sure surreality; certain pressures. Give a spirit its sight, to imagine loyalty. So against us; so close to unreality. 

Those moments being evasive; those charms by heart sequences. And one stands neither in nor out, such tyranny. 

Long live those waves, longer into reflection. 

I sense it’s unusual to love. One must be equipped. Status quo.  I was seeing inside—a picture appeared, it seems kind. 

And I’ll find sunrise, challenged by deception, to ruin what most never appreciate.  Outstanding beauty; sheer unbelievable; wrestling; if a soul could fathom, one would be amazed—the battle, those fields, mind wars. 

To see our behavior; to know for justification; to suggest—it went too far.  A person will lie to create perfection; to imagine where we push souls. 

It unravels. We feel achy. It was always imaginary. 

Give a soul her mind. Sudden exhilaration; renowned pressures. 

 

Musing Upon a Great Entity

 

I have no idea. Life is in motion. I fret feeling left behind. 

Making essence like scribes. Fiending in private. Nearly what seems stigmatized.

I impassioned an emotion; I felt drizzle, imprints, mind-paws.  I have come to terms with it: I do not know what love is in totality.  It seems like constant perfection to keep it; it seems crazy to lose it; it feels embarrassing to feel vulnerable. 

I ponder how two adore—such pangs, such depth of frustration. 

I’ll ever love her: such imperfect souls; it seems appropriate—as to invest in one—each breeze feeling like upheaval. 

Let others be what makes sense to them. 

I could not fathom such a sweeping. It was heart magic, mind mysticism. It trained pieces of the dying.  I keep asking my mirror: What is love?

I keep stumbling through answers. 

It seems undervalued. I desire such piety, indeed, a foolish need.  Hours over dreams. Skin sweat.

Such an amazing life: sunny days full of winter: autumn and foliage. 

  

I Reminisce

 

 

Loving you was easy; before sheer chaos, certain reigns. Loving you was adventure; before the greater sacrifice. I remember our song, shared between us, so addicted to you. Everything holds memories; life is stranded, hitch hiking, reminiscing with strangers; to travel away, forbidden to leave, raptured and ruptured, sheer uneasiness. I hear things are rocky. Such vanity in you, a selected creature should feel proud.  Enough of that.  I begin to fret remorse—accustomed as it seemed—to life, love, and acts. I sense you—maybe reading, knowing—it’s a longer road. Always pleasant. Always sullen. A craving for liquor; a sin to feel sober. Ensuring I wouldn’t; ensuring the day would meet with kef. I try to see it—the long greetings, the misty eyes, a cloud hovering over heads. If to give something in return; if the wailing would cease. I know it’s confusing—wrestling with cravings, trying to be what others desire. The veil fell. You stood there naked. I was shocked. Such family history. Mother didn’t like you. To pair me with some other creature. I venture to believe in you; to measure against reality a song and its sentimentality … pausing to rewind it. So devastated! So emphatic. Sweet love. Sweeter vinegar. In adoring what fails, in loving our nature, to surrender to utter heartbreak. 

Energy as a Weapon

 

When age comes to a cliff, a man begins to ponder mortality. If to give aloneness away; if to sing a solemn song. It was riddle to drive him; it was a man left to himself. To count prayers, to dispute miseries, to find solace; a stranger, a creature, wondering concerning hertz, as they mean something inconsequential, something like an incantation, never those Niles, those Euphrates rivers, never Songs of Songs. I don’t know what hurts more: physical contact, or insatiable voltage. A soul learns to live with it, moving through glades, camouflaged in his mind, hacking at tendencies, reviewing alienation. And I’d be remiss in not asserting, a man would destroy tender blues, waving jazz, old treacherous soul! It goes to orientation; it becomes what was learned: so short lived, to hate a man’s heart, to seethe at a woman’s voice. It’s ever poetic. It can’t just live. And what will a man chase after; and what does a man see? He knows his failures. He plays a clarinet, mourns an obo, sits, carving memories. To know what is, to venture down a long road, essentially, to be human, to ache in solitary. Let a song blaze on repeat, if to find self, if to let go of inhibitions, soft into a moment, trying as they say, reframing a post, holding to a feeling, forfeiting a claim, mesmerized by what becomes psychological. Alas! A man tortures his brains, if but to live, fraught by something explicable poesy.