Broken Carnivals

 

 

Pain grows with us, although, it can sustain us; rivers of vulgarities, a clean climb, and still, pain is the topic. To have loved was a privilege. To have died in such love was promised. It gets wilder, achieving adversaries, once so neat, the line is so thin. I asked about esoteria, seeking an answer, it was part metaphysic, part meta-science, and conjecture. Through anxiety and cleaving to identity, to become gentle denial. In reality—two loved, two became friends—if uncareful, two abhorred each other. Notwithstanding. Their times were lilies, watered baptisms, intense passion, gnawing at electricity. To soar across cities and travel through alleys—so cured in Love, such false celebration, alike to a man and his proverbs. Riddle me this: When do we become family again? And Love hates parts aloft a scream, so cordial, loathing a holy image—such symbols, wild memories and never so close in a dream. I ponder on reality, unless of use, one will cast a spell—and many have time to do damages. But Love is successes, blurry pains, threaded upon a synaptic gap. I was with some weird feeling, exposed in forests, pieces returning and mourning, to celebrate a soul’s happiness, to wonder about condition. I’ve said little. I was desire for a fairytale—to love like exclusive warriors, to have for existence—one claw. Three fingers, one dragon; to see it play piano, to key eternity, to violin an avalanche. Let God be gentle, I have much to contend.     

As You Will!

 

 

It (happenstance) has become unusual. What is Your plan/What would You have me learn? I’ve studied some keen reality concerning wings, dice, thus, gambling, thus, freedom. I know why souls are flustered, beginning at isolation, ending at alienation. Some souls seem estranged, withdrawn, to frustrate others, doing such by will. Soul of my ache; brother of my worship—sister of my spirit, and Mother of my cross. I was an oddity. I was wayward. In seeing life playing piano, I see Your keys at play. You’ve paired me before, to my naivety, unaware of fruition, connected notwithstanding, memory vines echoing one’s name. An apostle will have and not have freedoms: freedom—yes—to select garments, to live part civilly free—yes! As for internally, certain freedoms, unless paired: Father of Mother, Mother of Yeshua, freedom to explore what has not an ending—a soul is with thoughts on said matter.  You’d see me before existence. You’d make plans for my life. I repeat what is written. And You knew this woman—crossing our paths, knowing each were with predicament. To spark resistance so intensely, to make for psychical opposition; that wasn’t enough, imprints, spirit cages, caves in souls, even water in eyes. You gave her first billing: I’m with envy. I ponder intangibility. I wonder how it unfolded. It happened in her—exposed to careers, wrestling, as we assert—to have empathized with Mother, sight unseen, to have intimate understanding, holding face, testy on some point, it seems young, it seems human, with us saving by graces. However, You deceived me: Father of charms. It hast to be life as it is at this time. (I do worry! I do pray.) Life of my absence. Moments of my vision. As You will!

Sky Rulers

 

It behooves a soul to see—to inhale nature … for one rubescent, sorrowed, excitingly devastating. You seeped in; a desperate jeering. I imagine false feelings, albeit, so intense, an omen in some regions. In all of my flaws, you became an emerald. With nothing to include, prose bewailing attraction, intelligence betrayed, logic most insufferable. I debate epiphanies. A dear secret: self will find a way to deceive itself, embarrassment becomes legendary. I never had a right to adore. It feels like the jaw of life; most call it bull-crap. Sanctity requires global participation. I find souls are weakened by need. I’ve a plan to garner 10 consecutive wishes; indeed, a nutty professor, such loving kindness, to picture a human soul. As for eyes: nothing to contend with, cherished preference, too many diehard concerns, too many deficits. We age tenderly, pulled by romance, desperate for security, in days filled with uncertainty. Each chase offers wilderness. And what is an author searching to enjoy—capacity at its zenith, obviously—hoping for dreaming, one final excursion. I was rethinking ripeness, each accidental seduction, just for some insecure place inside, damn those damages. Such rubric passions, such hampering reality, often, we meet souls sharing rain—eager to tell their story, confused by exasperation of self, celebrated for seasons. 

If to Return to Self

 

 

 

Life is sunny darkness … steep regions, old school rhythms, seeing is difficult—one message is clear, there’s condition in humans. It’s a shame, such twilight zones, a soul is never trusted, and couldn’t utter Forgiveness. Tried and true, unrighteous but pure, we fail to decode scripture. We fail to determine God, as written. Love was sullen that day, many occasions, we call it humanness. It has no alpha, and it has no omega. Born to it; learned in it; it begins to feel normal, like comfort, we might not be ready for something new and different. With Love standing stalwart, face-to-face with leviathan, resurrecting in her rebukes, part maniacal, unsurpassed sanity, frustrated it repeats 

 

each morning. In meeting Love, it was mystery, as if we were sent—mental penmanship, physical calmness, attentive to what can never be; soft spoken cadence struck like fire, and Love was dear forests, irrepressible commitments. In disputing insouciance, vying for chaos, to need control, an art, just because. With watching comes affectation. With rumination comes images. Some are wiser than others, they believe in practices, impressing upon consciousness. Indeed, poets, sages, collars are wild, speaking foreign cries, until one is faced by uncanny atmosphere. Love left it to darkness, 

 

roaming interiority, cleaving to existence—like an experiment, like poignant flame, chi surging and soaring throughout our universe. It never stops. Part justified. Part for furtive concerns. Human need is pivotal. One ponders—it could come from elsewhere. If one is charged by essence, connected to similar flames, these quite easily could appease and satiate a spiritual craving. It never mattered. It always sung to itself. To pretend otherwise is impractical.  In trying to love reflection, in wrestling with societal demands, in giving to it—a somber canto, it appeared necessary, it seemed to give life, with others having perfections … they make it look easy: life of my life, such fruit, trying to capture insouciance … I saw it with Love sitting closer. I paid it no mind. Most are trying to save each other. Most elements are fleeting. A soul is lucky to return to itself. (Years at mind catapults, a vision, quite affected by life, no other recourse. Connected to souls, feeling condition, quite obvious, nothing clairvoyant there; with days questioning themselves, to have gazed in, disputing freedoms in others, while we dispute inclusiveness likewise.)

 

Over pomegranates, ruining a neat blouse, not too concerned with that: lilting laugher. More, a gentle smile. Too grown for a fledgling. (Some are trying, too much to compute.) It seems legitimate. Two come together. All of life in that union. Love is unseen in being seen. Nights with it, because something is missing. In holding one’s breath, hoping all will change, loving arms, giving all to survive it, captive of faith. It wasn’t intended for readers, maybe—it was for the author, such décor, rooms filled with chatter, eyes full of silence. In every nook there’s a soul. Made pensive at times, gathering oneself, calmly facing their lives—to brave sanity, those loving charms, to need what aches, more goodness than deficits—turning rain into an empire.  

Forthcoming

 

I know for not knowing. So casual the chaos. To sing to disruption, to unknit each seam, as to awaken to a similar quilt. It gets that way. Soundness challenged. Quickness averted. Devastation; showering in deepness, never wished to claim it, but a hint of despair. It seems ridiculous to say it, laughter unto a falling tear. And souls are at battle, guiding feelings, seized by emotion, unthawed, needled by reverberation. It comes across like a gift, some excruciating talent. It speaks to trials, mind tunnels, somber triumphs—

If to measure goodness, true, outstanding charity, condition besprinkles atmosphere. Idleness is vamping itself. It always felt precious—an art in wrangling, so philosophic, not nearly an entire solution; such zeal to adore, to believe, souls to cherish—such zest, trailing a xyst, or living Zen, facing intimate core self; in truth, a side of personhood, deeper than human reach, capacity is mythical, plaguing, searching souls, present like a noticeable weight—

Nevertheless, a dear friend, a loving sibling, a treasured spouse, with all those valleys, all those crevices, such activity, with perfection for others, with a flicker for spaces, so clear at seconds, carrying a symphony—

Such a mirror dance, fraught by perception, affixed to life-giving illusion   and adoring when ill is easy   seeking a solution to a seemingly terminal disposition   endlessness of glee   to notice self, smiling, withered, measuring expression, only enough—

Mazelike

 

Each day has hassles. I never meant to dwell on it. It just seems natural, albeit, to come with discomfort. Inner opposition. Those hours in thoughts; it seems complicated. I would imagine art might save us; one soul might deliver us. Some feelings are on repeat. To see life, to feel moved—musing upon disposition. Trying to say much without saying much. Rather something different, 

 

moving quickly, these are remnants, recompense, better, genetics; leaning into mechanics, reviewing science, moved by scripture—feeling like a soul, remaining silent, facing a fret, nostalgic for experience, those making life beautiful. Such functionality; such faculty. It was always there—deep in minds, to echo repetition, to remember guffaw, never doubted unison of experience—those longer roads. Ever in motion, so much so, something catches up slowly, like 

 

gentle creeping, those inner mirrors. Ceilings giggling. Television on simultaneous reverberations. Walls mocking. An inner understanding—can’t pride it, can’t ignore it. To hear it; sitting in stillness; if not desolate than facing deserts; if not plagued than haunted; if not focused than obsessed. Surrounded by emotions. Framed in palms. Symbolic disposition. Hypnotic scars. To adore Passion, simmering in discussion, becoming aphasia, trying to hear all sides, to a soul’s 

 

detriment. Upon what works, so isolated, accustomed to dreams, listening to overseers, the dreams we erect. Torn modalities, thinking about Love, so near to it, so scarred by it, numb at points; a spirit in composition, holding maxims, fevered at times, by a feeling. It becomes what life permits. Some parts are by condition, soreness of a soul’s existential, sky-watching, measuring clouds, facing some element, trying to bypass others, facing a great balancing act.  Over nectarines, asking 

 

questions, listening to gesticulations, searching for correlation, a difficult battle. Pantomime emotions through solitary channels, sudden into rhythm … Love is planting seeds, to imagine needing solace, an ancient curse, a blessed baseline.  Grateful it’s motion, it might swoosh at times, to shift reality, a sudden position—to imagine it was purposed, at many pressures to believe otherwise. If crazed, we ask for ultimate perspective, we ask overseers to evaluate each other, to apply those same rudiments to poets, no need in lying to self, if seeking truths.   

Quiet Noise

 

Diaphanous eyes, portal prophecy. Some parts speak to us. Other parts pass by us. Infatuation became deciduous. Loud in summer winds; excruciating at times. It was lyric, euphonic(s), bold and crisp agonies—to adore by feeling, feeling famished, famed, thus, famous emotion. Upon interaction, a key component; to favor living, to die in a glance, seeing a frown, sweet detriments. Love walks through woods. Knowing for little insurance, assured nonetheless. Made to flourish. 

 

Designed by passion. Such in a soul to drift the seven perfections; like theft at times, like rude at moments, like pure in its destruction. Everlasting lights. Mental fireflies. Some parts remain undreamed. Such maelstrom; accustomed to reaching, soft and sullen disappointments. Wits become overseers. Experience chaperones. So fuddled at moments—what does irony spell? Deserts made of seas. Dahlias made famous. To have pieces. To desire mastery. Then, too much 

 

unrealized, to take flame for granted. Such complicated creatures: we keep looking across the fence. Palming dragonflies. Mourning hummingbirds. A long line of mesmeric poets. To yearn for utopia. Faced by parts of dystopia. Gazing at the moon. Making life more complicated. Neither left nor right, just mourning dearth. Existence is full of doodads. If one sits idle, thoughts erupt. Too many exaggerations; they make life; to have a rare titillation. 

 

II

 

I was measured in fragments. Seeing it manifest, to notice vulnerability. I imagine some are privy to silence. Plus, the interior bulletin board. Akin to sacrifice; much unsaid, much to unsay; a poet will be held accountable, one lasting tribunal. Such parched flames; too long waiting. Parts lost. I sense a presence at times. Folks entertaining notions. With more to give, purity in souls, a fight to be with goodness, battling elements. Feeding shorebirds. Seated in meditation. Admiring parts of 

 

different regions. So many toils; such turmoil; appalled by what’s apparent. To dispute something made obvious. To pause and ask where souls are at; such smoky skies, partaking of cosmic spirit, one faucet into mirrors, to drop a prayer in passing. I determined certain duties, to sum up existence by asserting responsibility; common realities, mutual needs, with souls withering. I contend it will never occur. I feel at home in such malaise. While it eats at reality.      

Perceptual Design

 

 

 

Upon a flat line or soaring into skies. At least by assertion. And asking for grace, seducing complication, weeping heart mercy.  Love roars like a lioness; Love travels the middle world.  I find the in-between excruciating—a soul wishes to fly on demand, akin to pondering a first dance. Encouraged to stipple magic, to recite grays, accursed at spirit, one lasting flute. Too random where 

 

one fights for individuality. Never prided, or batting an eye, alike to preachers—every Sunday revving it up. Elation is addictive, for it’s like a phantom, it appears in a flash.  Love was performative, theoretical, filled with psychic sockets.  I try to ride a current, to evolve swiftly, both 

 

sensitive and desensitized—some strange creature, akin to leviathan, many emotions are swamp based. Too much to receive.  The hunch is tentative.  Love is a machine. Love is fierce. Love is delicate. Such is the difficulty. One sees it, has insights, works against it—swamplike emotions. “Either it’s all for me or I work against it.” I keep traveling.  And Love is a picture in a portrait, a scream in its wailing, water in its fount.  So much is invested; where one desecrates vision—to 

 

need in turn a delicate river.  While I tire of conspiracy talk, I realize some things are in motion.  We ask for clarity. It can’t be located. Most often many gridlocks are deliberate.  To notice a feeling in its denial, sheer internal contradiction, most ears are soundproof. If to try at a snail’s pace, torture 

 

in it, travesty in undergoing(s), wandering islands, seeing what was in throes of passion. Hard enough to blame a man, if he never knew, as it was never revealed.  Such change into a butterfly—such wildness in nature, so great the beauty.  As Love would balance scales, cedar chest letters, world renowned feathers or clipped wings; a soul must war, design has it no other way.   

Subtle Gesture

 

Like a vision it probes—a subtle expression. Love has mastered subtleties. I perish with each one. It was never our luxury—sable honest eyes, affectionate pains. Each hurt running deeper.   I throw the word around too loosely. At points, beauty aches, either present, or a feeling as if a dearth.   I imagine rain pouring on a summer’s day – roses sprouting on a decent gray – something hampering light.   It never registers. We might expect emotion, crazed by karma, asking permission to strike a nerve.   It was never in me to dance that shadow. It was ever with me to salute light, to rage over thunder.   Each with affectation. Each with prowess. Each with etiquette.   So unique; so intricate.   I suspect in being gentle one can be indelicate. A deep truth.   I have loved a mirage, raved over a passing glance, angered souls right afore time.   A theft in me.   A clown’s fever.   I see riven souls; I battle reaction to a scar.   Honestly, we make it work. It doesn’t just work.   A song I’ve longed for; in knowing dreams, in getting closer, ever asking for privilege—such dynamite, euphonic charms, on a specific wavelength.   First granted entrance, a wild escapade, endless apexes—soul of calamities. To envision eternity, as it frets itself, to have exaggerated its promise. Only if it feels like pain; some choice by arms; to have loved in private.   

Human Needs

 

 

 

Everything isn’t as it appears. Looking closer, neat vodka, juice with gin, pathological ulcers. To have Love seems too sweet to believe; dark roasted coffee, armlength havens, regathering broken berries—life of my needs—winepress of my visions. Quite determined. Sensing it hurts. Tears falling, undressing closure, too intimate for a running statue. Buried in words, giving rain back by onus, ontic space, something still taunting. If to be honest, something extraterrestrial is in motion; those with ether fathom, to be with slight haunting, encouraged from regions, always one step towards disclosure. In feeling goodness, in perspective of rites, made country, made stars. Who needs eternity, such a blessed curse, minds stirring martinis, quite close to repetition, one casual excitement over eternity; both filled with nuances, caged by dreams, partaking of essence, near ruined. So emphatic upon winds, through exospheric glens, many garbs of light and esoteric sins. Almighty sunlight those spectrums we travel, chasing holy contradictions, pleasurable misconception, facial abandonment; spinning, Love, one solution, sanctioned and satisfied, so casual to adore, unknowing to self, pursuing happiness by instinct. An uneasy realm, sickles or scythes, life so close to perfect chaos, to need beyond capacity, cleaving to harps.     

Effectual Perception

 

days have texture. a man yearns for tomorrow. sweet blossoms, acidic rain. words dragged out, as opposed to freefalling. I tell myself—it doesn’t mean much. A difficult assertion; a spin on reality. 

 

I must be proactive—; I mustn’t wait for sadness to pass. I agree with that. So, I wait it out. I tug 

 

at wires, stare at a trapeze, traipse a scar, difficult cadence. I’ll capture sorrows, nibbling a chip for minutes, gazing into a given thought, analyzing an inner ear. I imagine wolves howling, doves 

 

praying.  I used to daydream a lot; I need to say, many years ago. It amazes how I would entertain malaise.  It’s become taboo to assert madness. I’d speak to beauty as an affectionate creature; a 

 

somber gait; holy presence; sheer teary-eyed joys. It seems like life; a mixture of happiness—

 

touched by gloominess. Battling an existential impasse, grave inside, meaning little to others, as they face life. I wait for a song to shift—its ending seems more important; upon a feeling, a thought 

 

addressing emotion, a sign in heaven, to drift into a portal. Love is unknown. Memories made intangible. Deep lighted moods. Arts of pyramids; passions anew; a slight grimace, we call it 

 

remnants; to love skies, to pamper a lily, to adore what never gives fruition; making goodness, one dream, affixed to a type of ingenuity.