Our
ghetto lives, so rough that terrain, afflicted by righteousness; to have lived
a scoundrel, as some sort of mystic, our dungeons speaking in tongues; this
foreign language, thrust as heartbeats, to seek African drums; this portal of
madness, as effected chaos, to realize descendants: such tragic unity; such
mystic yogis—this realm, his world, a daymare; as kind to madness, a stranger
to kindness, as some sort of paradox; to want but chi, a giant in fair beauty,
as loved beyond stature: that furious song, adrift through portals, as reminded
of ghettoes. It couldn’t be life, this absent adventure, to shift with such
passion; as born to sing, that silent hymn, this chant by brains and fusions:
that terrible screeching; to awaken in screams, pulling palms as not to afflict—this
reason for living, haunted by grayness—that needs to define our mystics. I’m
sketching merely, this split in souls, as to ignite a séance; this ritual by
seas, this covenant of Wiccans, this Witch by arts—our Christian souls; as
riddled to live, pulling at sources, this change in eyes, our afflictions. It
couldn’t be life, this mystic fuse, as forever a distant sky; to rise by
trades, as falling by souls, to drift so murky that oddness: this rigged
bridge, that prison of freedoms, as every step determines our futures; to feel
in moments—the deepest joys, as altered through eternity. It couldn’t be real,
as something so vague, to have scarred three generations: our ferocious souls,
scaling mountains, while to arouse a bestial feeling: this need for silence;
that need for floating; as to harness a wild monster—with time a friend, as
conditioned through practice, where love becomes a voice: that tender aura;
those wails for poorness; those professors at prayer—their yoga; to forge a
trestle, if but a missile, to come as souls one nature: this wind our love,
pushing past barriers, as to warm affections within: that treasured well; those
ancient souls; that cry for one that lived. I’m seeking miracles, in such a
pond, feeding as to distract this soul—from something course, to center a
diamond, as roaming islands: that furious song; that powerful temperament; that
jolt, that movement, that life.
