Wednesday, July 13, 2016

Art Has a Muse

I felt this love, so steep this mania, as accused of lunacy; to charm this life, with adverse words, as to find a lost soul. There’s connection, grounded in spirit, to future this paradise; as some sort of kinship, to a integral genius, peeking during sessions; as never to love, for bones were tears, where a harbinger terrorized the nights; as eyes closed, to avert the hells, where beauty cried; as something torn, to feel her pressure, to know her favor; this bent on life, this Cross on souls, as this thing for swans. I felt this love, so steep this cliff, as born too early;—for such deep thought, as a manuscript grieves, as time slices blood; to cry her art, as opposed to love, to see for failure; where distance was law, as to cross this line, as to embarrass Jesus; but it couldn’t life, to ignore this sequence, where words articulate this crassness; to feel for purpose, this immortal grain, streaming through Petrarch; as to convince this joy, of heaven’s lack, as indicative of joy. I couldn’t be felt, as so gravid this time, to move as a snail; the mauve of love, that lavender hell, that purple rain; as chained to manics, to see her face, to know mother’s linage. It was born uncouth, to reckon a thousand poems, as to admit love to self; this thing of dreams, as it couldn’t be, this thing of dreams; to chime with gods, as alone the mornings, somewhere deep our Christ’s soul. Oh this avalanche, to keep it for perfect, as alive the music: the deepest grief, afraid to utter—the deepest grief; as chartered afield, an office in a cave, a shaman as a friend; as so alert, to something strained, the art of this woman’s prayer; for years to dirt, as for days to glory, this feud of fools; as dearly his night, to ask this question: Are the skies in favor of death?—to panic this verse, as to forfeit rhyme, that churn into a pit-bull; to bully fragments, this element of tears—as years become a locomotive; as driving railroads, as cursing velvet ceilings, as driving this life; to future events, to render injustice, as to walk into events.      

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...