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.