To Love by Thought

 

I embark upon love, as a portal to existence: the sun glistening upon life, the tales told in classes, the rivalry for fair resistance, to court and court and lose. Such tragic pain, life as gods, souls as goddesses: flame of 

 

coldness, fire of ice, rolling by heart, stern by wrath, affected by fair beauty. A soul living his deaths, chasing partial winds, banshees & wraiths, gusts & spiders, to speak about love—is to perish to love. It 

 

was never intention, it was ever compulsion, measured against unreality, a soul of the Spirit. Like a stroke of good fortune, Love would pluck a flower, gaze on high, and annunciate the poet’s name. Such grayness. 

 

The poet would pursue. The two might wrestle, act flirtatious, or plain show disrepute. Such fluffy doves, beads of sweat, excellence & shadow seduction. The tender greetings, a nimble caress, to have lived 

 

whilst we died. Kingdoms at war. Making lament upon a lute. Staring into something futuristic. Needing to love, if but to remember. So swift, the loss; so unreal the encounter. So fragile the humanity.   

Never Forget The Human

 

The face would be sin. The gospel is prose. I must seduce patience. If to keep order. Going into chambers—mystic channels—the face is darkness. Flickering. Let there be luminosity. Such spasms. Dwelling in terrors. Life keeps coming. Trying to forget happenstance, alike to changing cultures, a neat practice, the self can’t be effaced, despite tenets. Go ahead and give life, this is beautiful. One’s features. One’s brow line. And we leave emotion to stitch a bond. The caress of gentility. The meals at the table. Those tender bedtime stories. And we leave that to feelings. The face was darkness, sternness, until a beaming bulb, a brilliant sun, dreams in motion—the face would still be sin. Such terrible clarity. A man’s disturbance. To have read the most alarming literature. There’s pain there. One needed to wait before becoming concerned. If necessary, how to vet that? If unnecessary, where is the soul of that person? The face is gorgeously benighted. Darkness is raw alure. Needing sensuous titillation; needing the pains that probe us; needing deep felt alienation. The author is off. The audience is clear. We assume such things. Or the author is clear, and the audience is off. Either/or, else both are off at points, and clear at points. The face would sin. The most deplorable behaviors, to see fascination, curiosity, an attraction to what one might detest, pure concupiscence. To imagine a man, raw in his years, at his peak, to shift, as to notice a heart-beating anguish. The latter is better than the former. The former gave life a form. One might tire of turmoil. One might grow weak around old appetites. And a soul was a minister—forgetting his color, the consensus ruled against him, just like King Jr.

 

Marshweed Trekking

 

 

You touched a button. You made a point. 

The temple is full of spirits, seated neatly.

We lean into deception, filled with pride, uncertain, moving with motion. 

A man will change everything, a woman will nurture his change. 

The epitome of silence is passionate neurons, scratching, clawing, if but elation, alike to mania. So 

great

the fission, sweet dolor ecstasy, blood blue diamonds. Sublime doctrine, first courage, before humanism. 

Unphysical alchemy, tangible but unmeasurable—they call us mad, knowing our scars, living supposed lies. So pictureless, tender nectar, chaste and unclean—such prestige. We yearn for you, so screwed in pains, to have ruined what God might ordain. The bowels inside, shapeless, for it would never cross galaxies, never confront mystery, never ache as it does. The chantress 

is

voiceless, appearing in voltage, too much revealed, it was never hidden. 

Such marshweed trekking. 

Bold deliverance. 

Hyenas dream. Cobras dance. It was hellish. I’m weird. As points, it felt good. A lost man, a disenchanted woman, we wonder what in farse they’ve created.

 

Just Streaming

 

 

The depiction of excellence. At times it happens. They might worship rhinestones. They might worship nothing. How to exert love without meaning love? So estranged; eating a zillion dollar emotion. (It’s uphill or nothing.) And it must feel good. 

The room was packed. Free the dead. 

Low hazel eyes. Belly dancing miracles. Amazed by beauty.

What was given? What was received? Years in. Years out. The penalty of truths. 

Examining what we call love. It seems uneven. And many reciting it. 

I was rethinking about it all; when I come through this ….

No degrees on this one. New rules. I’m learning. 

Many writing masterpieces; they know privacy. 

It remains alienated, threshed flesh, winnowed brains, just sold an ox. 

After a while nothing means as much as infatuation. It remains raw—giving life. I reminisce on features: shoulder length roses, aesthetic waists, an antique anklet. 

Taking lies to the grave. I’m not alone. In all the giving, in all the winning.