Chaos Churns Order

We need purpose, this florid soul, challenged at angles; to become that—as so many years, crooked through meditation; not for bibles, but more geometric, this three ninety degree. I love and vanish, to see royalty, this color purple; to figure on stars, as grounded in soil, this branch as broken; to love with reason, as opposed to settling, this woman a feature of brains. It could be real, this inner killing, this person at laws a vulture; but more to patience, to heal her voice, this power by essence a crow; to die with love, as speaking addictions, this fragment of society; to have that drink, polished by cigars, to feel this dove. We seek for anger, to hear for truths, this vehicle by ways a phoenix: that casual guitar; that inner orchestra; those violins singing of miseries; to find a friend, as to conjure our souls, this love as magnificent: if life is death; and breath is her; I’ll manage by sights this trumpet blast. I speak of truths, to awaken souls, while hated, nonetheless: this vibrant soul, as misperceived, as doing that thing that causes ill-repute. It couldn’t be life, this feeling for days, as conquered internally: this radiant onyx, this velvet topaz, those terrible turquoise tragedies; to see this life, as shadowed in psychs, to know we need this love: that honored badge; those silent cries; this woman his dreams at flurries; to paint for islands, this marooned company, as to realize it starts in brains; that lax demeanor, as pushing for perfect—in a world loaded with chaos; to see her heart, at that very second, as chasing that feeling. I died a child—at tears to live, but only a thousand deaths; while feeling so old, this welkin effusion, a man to meditate for years: to change countenances; to anger strangers; this want by nature to appease; but hell to hells, this furious soul, fleeing through caves: this violent woman; as to change his direction; while spectators cherished their lives. I loved an image, at points to see, while disrepute invaded his name; this cursed event, where heaven lingered, this door he wouldn’t open; to find for wars, this other pleat, as seated in a world of chaos.

I was needs to breathe, sectioned in disorders, peering at this secretary: her violent air; this ghetto hospital; this man seriously demonic. I watched his name, to center his aura, this thing for psychs. We disappeared, to see for spirits, this place his soul an engine. It took to light, to ask this vision, where prose becomes an inner tome. I wrote a verse, to awaken, screaming; this secretary passing water. I reappeared, sitting at school, this ten year old mistake; to capture life, while pleading peace, this thing as hard won; to feel embarrassed, for mother was ill, that time of day to diatribe: this wealth of angst; as never a child; this outer preparation; or more for inwards, to compose a missive, as to meet a woman his image; this secret dance, to watch disorder, a bit intrigued with demeanor. I saw a friend, this kindred soul, as to have missed so much; this casual air, as seated in ignorance, where one wishes to awaken a shadow: that broken harp; those days for others; these years composing about a phantom; to see his eyes, a bit for droopy, as sober as a man in grains; this raining aura, we can’t escape, as invested in our brains. I couldn’t hear, as born to see, and now he hears; this electric voice, as so sentimental, while sensitive to words: this touch of minds, cleaving to throws, as floored to read of passions. It becomes art, to lose so much, this feeling of nonchalance. It comes by nature, this fated disposition, as to suddenly shatter: that feeling of hells; his fingers moving; this stream to cleanse his brain; this fabulous woman, to love his soul, at tears to honor his thoughts.   

Plain Insanity

I’m not to call it, plain insanity, this roller coaster, this spectrum that’s widening; this little person, to conjure ghosts, this woman afraid of mirrors; to write forever, this no- change excitement, those woes by lights his souls. I crawled to heaven, as sick as madness, to greet this phoenix: that casual grin, those moments in hell—that aloof—“I needs”; to picture for perfect, this imperfect measure—a mother as a serious addict. I died your arms, to claim exclusive, this inner fool; where hours were passion, lost in ecstasy, to give him what I couldn’t reach: this force of souls, as drifting that heartbeat, to exclaim the mediocre. I disappeared, this man to journeys, as to arrive at truths; to tell her plainly—“You burned a spirit”—to receive ostracism. It couldn’t be real, this fool to measures, this man that doesn’t see; so more to acting, this thing of serfs, as to realize he couldn’t care: this deep affect, while hassled in brains, to wonder of love; but more to swans, at tears to see, this perfect society; this city phantom, at woes with love, to see pure infection; where fools protect, this vile creature, at needs for mercy. I called a Ghost, while deep in hells, to binge by way of catastrophes; this little person, wooing his soul, to retreat in anger; to see it younger, pictured in chaos—this woman beyond comatose. I could but grieve, as painted in deaths—this furious response. Our world was dolls, this image of love, as to see a face beaming with demons; to hear it over, that once again—“Why aren’t you talking”; or more to place, this wealth of violence—“I love you.” It sickens our guts, this changeable force, to meet several women a day; this one person, fueled for destruction, pretending that the world is blind. I wanted more, this swan as jewels, to realize—she shall persevere. It burdens life, to see it not, this crooked thing as normal; where good is wrong, as bad is good, as to laugh at an outer force; this thing within, to touch for souls, as surfing through dimensions. We sang a song, this old folklore, as to pretend a good meal speaks of families: that crying ache; this repeated life; this woman bent on the privacy of addicts. I must retreat, as to signal with purpose, this dying ruse! 

Tugging II

It could be you—but why such terror, this person of shadows; to aggravate souls, this religious man, probed by sins; to come for sickness, this lose of feelings, to feel this breach. We live by powers, this selfish outlook, to believe they couldn’t see. It arrived at night, this pushing essence, as to speak at morning. It could be you, this inner yogi, bent on something, a crying irritation; or it could be me, this shift in weather, a book completed: that not for casual, this gravid soul, as dancing through so many sentences; or it could be you, dealing with something weird, while going through changes; or it could be us, so broken in parts, so wise in wisdom; to ponder mercy, this eight week run, as filled with thoughts; to resonate at signs, to sort through symbols, to pause our eyes glossy; this pagan notion, as attached in rituals, to stir up a volcano; as time erupts, our mothers watching, as some souls writhe with vengeance; to wish us dead, for something unseen, while not to speak of injustice. It gasps through eyes, this strong woman, at seconds, a lady cringing; this furious field, this song of men, this feeling of absence; to search for self, as to find that part, while losing essence; this need for grace, as pieced through texts, to die through a kind gesture; this waking soul, filled with chi, to push through a holy texture; as to ignite a furnace, when thought to put to rest—this vest of tragedies. It couldn’t be life, to want with passion, while to hold to hopes forever; but these are grains, to hope in promise, this substance of that unseen. It tears our guts, to have that hunch, attached to hypotheses; as never to retreat, as pushing for responses, ashamed to know we pushed for naught; this bent upon powers, to have that effect, as to wonder of something nonchalant; as hebetated deeply, this pressing of buttons, as one that cried wolf; but it could be a group, pressured by brains, as to witness this shift in nature: those blue clouds; that nectar of changes; that realization; but never us, as torn through mishaps, as misperceiving channels; those inner wings, as private thoughts, to want for this thing; where tempers seethe, as directing chi, while persons feel uneasy; but this is life, some type of magic, where energies are soon to wisdom; this letting live, this deep surrender, that felt epiphany.

Tugging

Our weather has changed, where something tugs, this type of heaviness; as wanting in joys, as demanding attentions, to wonder about what she wants: this crying shame; this locomotive; this angel stranded to earth; if time is gentle, that plague of lights, those bars shattered to winds; to see her name, sprinkled in parts, electric through turmoil. I considered us, this casual losing, for prose was fluid; to see your heart, as floating upon waves, to cringe realities: that dying feeling; that turn through pikes; that hour we gained; to feel such purpose, as to love with such fervor, as to refuse to unlatch admirations: this charm by souls; this place we died; that second of rebirths: our gardens plush, filled with similes, as too this space of metaphors: that harvest through graves; that knell by signals; this right to love for arts: that crooked grin; as causing angst; while spirits visit from within; this earth of pains, as living by ghosts, this sacred heaviness. I cried our cage, as feeling correct, while to run through caves; to remember your essence, as laughing through sorrows, a room of yearly strangers; to come to terms, to accept this light, where hell passes through brains: that second to pause, filled with stars—that tear to drop a petal. It tore a soul, to read of pains, by vision this art of trees; to count for branches, while to know so little, to intuit through facial lines: this death of souls, to plague our futures, as both to let go and remember: that hectic sail; through Poseidon’s sea; to realize he could of waited; but why for arts, this fatal transition, to fathom that something was lost: this deep regard; this inner sensation, as to never lose; for love is lively, shooting through waves, this sky filled with diamonds: that heavy feeling; as killing innocence; where such is required to feel. It’s quite for selfish, this dance we sing, while to ballet in cages: that broken earth; that inner crevice; those moments at war with self; where something tugs, while to wonder about why, whereas, we see: this feral nature; as wild for riddles; to want not but to receive; this outer resonance, this ink of depression, this word by design as taboo. I meant for love, to sail to prose, to becoming nonchalant; for wisdom spoke, as to imagine rain, where fathers must to ponder; this world of love, as fuel to flame, while grit comes from letting go; to give to spirits, this welkin grain—our souls to tests.  

When Souls Fly

At points to perish, this inner rebirth, but everso young; to flourish a swan, this mental greeting, as so humble to cherish; this inner wildness, this flying by thoughts, those vacuums those seconds. We live by choices, to measure by actions, this flurry of metaphors; to die by chance, while born to sing, this method by arts a songbird. I heard a melody, where stomachs growled, this fasting by lights his soul; to picture smiles, this lace of angers, where spirits groan; as ever to live, a kid upon wings, this dream for siblings. I felt your soul, that faint despair—peering into cultures; to witness operations, while feeling foreign, to become that thing we know; but hell to falling, while heaven to falling, this thing concerning our pigments; as pure genetics, this art of grace, this segment between personas: this part of that; this part of this; by chance this other section. We needs for power, this frantic explanation, to crawl by chase our feathers; as winging souls, from gravel to branch, to soaring so high; as flying forever, to empower so many, this chess of politics; that crucial being, fleeing through crises, as to become this force of gravity; to mount an angel, this horse by fame, as traveling this seventh heaven; where ignorance grieves, unaware of folly, this mask pointing fingers; while hell is speaking, where lights are silent, to embark upon wisdom’s gurney: this space of times—as so energetic—this repeated conversation; where love is dim, this human convention, as willing to die so often. I’ve called a spirit, this series of names, as to enter your heart’s sanctum: this earth of wares; this country of flying; this meeting of cherubs; to see by visions, this inner darkness, as to convert a negative thought: this man of ills; this daughter of hopes; this mother yearning for image; to harness breath, this vehicle of silence, as borne to some sort of genius. I cry no more, as to cry forever, while wounded unto healing; this deep paradox, as pure resilience, confronted with such ugliness: this pier of minds; this cringing of souls; this trek through darkness for lights; to have your arm, reaching through chants, as meditating upon, Aum; this engineering, sectioned within, this cosmic armoire.    

We Must Retreat

I treasured you, this explosive feeling, as compounded by emotions; to accrue interest, this second upon wings, to cleave to something with promise: this lake of passions; that casual heartbeat; this vault distinguished through lies; that ark of ways, as maverick souls, at ease to distress through love: this achy arc; this window of sunlight; those curtains I can’t pronounce; to build this pleat, stationed at crossroads—our passions as deeply demonic; to cry this forest, on course to perish—our pains as casualties of wars; to die so gently, at tears, this addiction, where spectators point at dysfunction; while so profane, this inner voice, to call that savage name. I must retreat—into something special, while peering at exotic limbs: this egregious woman, as bad as a first glance, as terrified as virginity; to become fluid, this outer intimidation, this demanding persona; but more to love—this fragile/aggressive soul—so powerful that ache; to command winds, as to tread lagoons, while to heal through mania; this cordial demeanor—so wild a second, pulling at psyches; to expand love, while detached purely, where something is peculating: this pot of gumbo; those honeysweet biscuits; those garlic potatoes;—this soul of wisdom, while granted such death, at breath, this woman of wiles: that crazed persona, as so enchanting, to witness such rage; where ours is testy, this pair of rivers, flowing haphazardly. I treasure you—this inner force, yanking at something somber; this art to meadows, perusing energies—our hearts leaping heavily; to feel imperfect, as to experience perfection, while skiing into tornados; that outward tug, those sprinkles by skies, that second in time so close. I loved at such a distance, infused by romance, at once—too young to appreciate love; but ours was crooked, as not for long term, to act as if eternal; this mystic mountain, derived of scrolls, such as tablets before betrayal. I must retreat, with eyes as attics, at retrospection this wave.

Troublesome

I know to go far, these tired eyes, those sinus bags; while loving textures, this aesthetic charm, our arms at reach; to seize that second, where anger erupted, to ask for measures. I’ve loved often, as seated in energies, our hearts at raptures; to come to life, as so disappointed, peering at you; this outer mystery, to believe in gems, this place to imaginations; where arts are love, this glove to fit, as seeking something special; where hell is realism, as more existentialism, as more this husband by virtues; to see with panic, this lavish attraction, at souls this silent weather. I’ve charmed vultures, expecting something genuine, to arrive at your doorsteps: this fragrance scent; those ruby eyes; our senses as haywires; this frantic ache, seeping into truths, to know but one; this thing of myths, as suited to despair, for love is clockworks; but find us now, this want for children, as knowing its but a moment in time; for sphinxes live, as riddles in vases, appalled by closures; those savage bars, as wanting friends, this place of frantic desires; as still to live, this hidden life, with angers that he spoke; this tragic pain, while engrained in sutures, to feel we must persist. I’m want to feel it, this bias life, where all caters to one person; but this is arts, to perform, nonetheless, while maintaining a hint of dignity; wherewith, are rubies, those piano gifts, that skylight as visions; to promote silence—something she couldn’t take—where love possessed her man’s soul; this ticking clock, this broken pendulum, those seconds reaching for truths. We love an image, this perfect embrace, while faced with traumas: that scorned goodbye; that fevered courtship; that visit to judges; as born again, to want without giving—this space of fools; but these are lights, where fools fall in love, while soldiers maintain openings; this grounded wealth, as feeling desired, where love lives through beauties; that fragile flower, a petal to a ladybug, as daring as a puddle of lies; but you are aches, those things his soul, to find us buried in tears; this force of goals, as mended in shards—this entrance a breaking of souls; but this is love, to finally settle, while our histories are bound in wires; to keep to heart, that river’s infractions, as pausing to hear love this moment.  

Wave Touch

We become flowers, budding through tribulations, at ease with something askew; to harness chaos, as natural tendencies—our tendentious waves; while seated in tenets, our orders from above, peering at mystic madness; to love as nuns, this grit of monks, to relish in sheer pleasure; that guilt within, while sipping scotch—a cigarette to our souls; this famous portrait, so eager to descend, where hell paints in lurid colors; to clash with life, this feeling of living, as heavy as lumber waves; to die but thrice, this life of rebirth, to return with handles aloof; this curious nature, a bit too jaded, while to grumble through sky-beams; that too far adventure, as losing sanity, this grimace by way it passes. We’ve tasted rain, this acidic substance, at posts for thunder; this miracle adrift, awaiting our signature, where mother appears a wave; to kneel by fire, this knell ringing, this dual reality; to hear for both, this said sickness, while our recorder paces our truths; to have experiences, this secret activity, where something fits beyond those things given; to reject experience, as to monitor this threat, at woes deep within: that blossom of wisdom; that offsetting spirit; those mental manifestations; to claim perfection, while dying perfection, as to expect perfection. It devastates time, this crooked adversary, as only God escapes; as mocking, Nietzsche, this magnet of souls—a lawn filled with spectators. We live through psyches, to peer through hearts, where souls connect to brains: this fabulous maze; this enchanting voice; while to listen through body motion. We sought a gesture, to find a miracle, this thing to alter personalities: this changed energy; that removed piece; where souls surface successfully; to die adventures, rowing through valleys, to carry her by this river. It stood for kindness, this vehicle by pressures, to meet eye to eye as luminaries: that extended arc, as reaching his soul, as thrust through by spears; that electric push, while reaching for clouds, to reappear to mirrors; that lost convention, to soon return, those moments so silent to touch.

Remember Your Name

I loved an image, this inner indigo, as morphed between minds; to seize depression, this welcomed station, as seeping into loins; this farewell to joys, to comb impressions, as liable for love. It dies slowly, this world about years, that frantic trembling; to have such purpose, those purposeless deeds, as one mused upon turmoil; that nonchalance, that cryptic response, those wakeful hours. I disappeared, a man to journeys, to meet a Zenist: that powerful gate; those palms clutched; that gentle speech; as more than life, those years of practice, while enchanted with mystics; this space of romance, that inner minx, this thing about animalism; as detached deeply, to have us but once, as in error to become attached. I loved her style, to cause for trembling, to see her with shakes; this country soul, filled with intelligence, while analyzing potential spirits. I died to see it, this celestial star, as infused this heart; to speak as distant, this kid to surface, as a child before his judge. It couldn’t be love, but mere attraction, where ours was shallow; this woman in motion, while going through changes, this vulture tugging intentions. I must confess—this life of passions, to see for aggravations: that solemn charm; that childhood pain; that second where clarity assaulted visions; to cringe at self, as aware deeply, that time would ruin families; this wild enchantress, subject to lives, our canals racing through images; as torn that soul, reaching for lines, to finally regroup. We feel afar, musing through prose, pursuing lightning bolts; whereto, is rain, this inner drizzling, to awaken sensations. It could be life—where heaven is myth, as so is hell; that outer angst, that broken theologian, those places we ought not to visit; wherewith, are feuds, this passion by beds, to push beyond limits; this aggressive heart, so skilled at living, but infused with seated depression; to claim for texture, this thing of joys, as to remember that love is constructed. I can’t but live, as seeing her face, that second we leaped into fractions: those aesthetic fingers; that powerful gait; that essence that ghost appeared; to see us musing, while revolving houses, this reach at best infatuation.          

Swanship II

I called it long ago, this thing of personas, as sectioned in chaos; this inner war, to love afar, as seated in textures; this field of voices, that moment of clarity, as rivaled for daughters; to give me mine, where pain’s abundant, this space she couldn’t forgive; that long ago, eternal this sphere, to hate with such vehemence. I love a soul, this needs for strength, this stoic out-light; as craving fires, that portal through brains, this silent enchantment. I hope she reads, as filled with powers, to become that stature; for this is life, this welted procedure, to invest in young swans. I want us strong, as too resilient, as three, this luxury; to dance through turmoil, as intrigued with thinking, to harvest this vest; where this is love, a friend at needs, to die alongside a spirit; as ever reborn, seeking as for change, this brain a locomotive; where this is you, this woman of passions, clashing with ignorance; to see as mountains, this thing to climb—our days as bodhis; to claim with vengeance, this tide of families, to feel this connection. Your aunt’s a falcon: Your cousin’s an engine: Your extended family is holy; to see for Pretty Boy Floyd, this fiery McCormick—at woes to defend the county. We’ve died to live, a family of secrets, as committed to empowering swans; for this is rain, this gentle sensation, while earth is inverted; to conjure spirits, to afflict with chi, as borne to this electric wave; as ours is motive, this thing for sisters, as brewing a pot for brothers; that empty, Marchand, that vibrant, Fisher, those tales surrounding pictures. I long with fervor, to display an album, while situated in caldrons; this place of wolves, myself included, where we paint for portraits a perfect image. It couldn’t be life, to love for fun, while others die electric; to see that woman, as kind to children, to feel such affection. It kills for souls, as born to extract, where art becomes savage. We love a swan, as broken in parts, this chance by lights our deaths; to see beyond, as dead to life, that far deep in rituals; to poke a heart, to give a blessing, as this is worlds within cities. It must be love, to hold so dearly, peering into madness; to see this swan, so close to home, as to imagine this, Elizabeth. I, too, am hungry, to give this vest, as to influence life; this great event, bent by commas, to electric this art-fall; this inner calling, as gifted with trances, to dip by chance this filter.    

Our Beating Souls

We died this journey, to arise as healthy, that forbidden light; to grip for swans, this chaotic pit, to frequent limbo; this mystic tomb, our wombs as souls, this place for intimacy; as borne to volts, infused by spirits, as long to live intuition. I crave a soul, that warm in essence, to plague our goodbyes; this second for closure, to retreat for good, as awakened to mischief; that ark of silence, this arc of hellos, that fire by flame this person; to see regrets, as shadowed forever, this thing he couldn’t fix; but truth to lights, this tacit affair, to have spoken but once: that ink in blood, that want for volts, to see as to adjudge. I know a soul, as smart as silence, to feel a bit numb; for life is aches, as plus to joys, this balance seeming inconsiderate; at times for music, this inner Beethoven, as alive through, Immanuel; this welkin grin, fused from beneath, at woes concerning those secrets; this monk by mind, that seldom we come, to have experiences daily. It charges our brains, to flood our egos, as we must remain humble. It pushes for grandeur, as pride that fall, this casual ink splattered upon psyches; to walk so gently, as seen by few, this wealth at goods her scent; while dead inside, this courageous act, to deceive a colony of coworkers: that inner gem, imbuing souls, while one hates our guts; this broken person, this song of souls, that grated heartbeat; to sing of love, this daughter as solid, to needs this want for solace: our torn affects, that change by lights, to affect our cosmos; this inner angst, that shallow response, this person suffering through voices; to claim perfection, this earth of gods, while disappointed dearly. It couldn’t be life, this measure by wisdom, to realize this common thread; as painted blandly, this puppy in bars, as to entertain these ghosts; that ecclesial guilt, to conquer this art, as refusing to succumb; where this is self, as one ostracized, this needs for guidance. I heard a swan, to condemn such actions, as to wonder of this deep infection; to ask of souls, those probing questions, as to hear—“I merely said so”: but this is life, to learn so early—our sun remains at a distance; for this is passion, to reach unto closure, while hearts remain aloof; this casual sin, as was this night—that day it came to surface: this inner storm; that talking soul; that secret concerning spirits.