Crevice Fires

I dreamt of poison, this obvious woman, as lethal as Heavy Metal; as more a tear, frantic that valley, traipsing at a cheetah’s pace; to close his mind, that room of rainbow lights, tainted by age that curse; to chime with demons, this dread of feelings, at trance this nectar of sweet poison. I dreamt of love, a palm filled with facts, as leaking into chaos: those enchanting ways; that mystic body; that sphinxly glow—as put to pacing, this rug with knowledge, as partly crazed for love: this intricate music; that minx’s face; those mahogany eyes—as straining perfections, this cut by gnats, while feeling like an outcast—for purple fingers, bloodshot eyes, a century of piercings; but long it lives, those inner amazements, at wants this sage of beauty. I’m mediocre, that hymn to soul, while remaining humble—at search this Bugatti, if but that engine, to rev like castles—this sky of pains, held hostage by hells—this independent poet—to adore those eyes, as cherished invisibility, arranged in jars of perceptions—where lies are abstract, that constant forgiveness, while possessing such sickness: that furrowed brow, as followed by laughter—that time I saw deception—as laced in us, peering insanities, where mercy ensued: that bleeding vase, as framed in France, as near, too, we trek—this industry of passions, clutching a cigar, as dreams evaporate in smoke: that deep pursuit; this want he couldn’t grasp; this woman with visions; as coined to legacies, her trail through oceans, our segue as russet chaos—or pandemonium, asearch a gray goose, pining for golden eggs—as more to mercy, to grip his fingers, while searching stars. We argue fate—so much our times, while kneading a stranger: those attributes; that want for comfort; that willingness to condescend: I’ve lived this place, at mercy’s love, stumbling to repent—that fool in souls, wrapped in humble chaos, at peace with eighty percent—of this so livid love, this levity of science, scented ambrosia—living life’s lethalness; where parrots parade, as passion’s fools, but more this seated satisfaction; to have our war, as warring freely, to see her sitting there—this curious force, this altar of holiness, this brainstorming maniac. I’m soon to drift, adrift bluebird-miseries, peering at burgundy lights—this caption by storm, those hips and thighs, this inarticulate address—while pushing through algae, or palming plankton, this favor of souls sitting in silence—to ache his heart, this purple moon, this beige sun—where actions are reclusive, this moment to hurt hearts, while saying something foolish; as more a dream, as dreamt a warrior, when time played it gently—this role of passions, to have that second, while sharing destiny’ love: that sermon’s hand; those fair features; that brain by force a locomotive; as receiving her words, un-enchanted by enchants, peering through a rearview—to have died his life, even a bodhisattva, playing by course this irony of rightness; as wrong would live, as a tortured soul, filled with flames screaming through hells. I’m soon to drift, as reeling in justice, to admire perfection; to claim she found it, this hurtful disposition, as not to summons chaos. It’s more like us, souls of superstitions, suited for right living—to watch our words, as each carries energies, while forming realities: those rich symphonies, or dark epiphanies, while cleaving to this person of clarities: our inner dalliances, as more to flames, this person our shared inheritance; as more this dowry, or more our diary, or more our deaths; too see this person, as more a giant, while to support such with love. I’m looking to drift, seated at a settee, drawing an ottoman, preparing for intermission: this inner opera, knitted into an aria, crocheted in church—this place of worship, this nurtured heartsore, our reach as fevered through feelings; to arise at chaos, this sore definition, as to wonder of this phenomenon; but more those eyes, or more those legs, or more our legacy; as shadowed by ghosts, realizing wrongness, but still a bit selfish; as to ruin so much, in tuned with justice, fleeing into improper dreams: that scent of soap; those missing earrings; that perfect nunnery; to shift to holiness, this virtue of souls, as to cherish our literature. I’m soon to rise, as mangled by lights, to taunt by chance—this fallen sin, as more a curse, at needs to see clearly: this trenchant force, heaving to lift justice, this spell of fennel scars; indeed, our heritage, as living before time, while defined by slavery—as universal, as opposed to solitarily—this fit of forces at fevers—to cry through motions, our gesticulations, while trekking through mental mire; this caption afar, staring at mauve stars, at course to love through seasons. It churns a soul, to give fervently, while dying ardently; this empty space, as fingers tremble, alert to confusion; to love this woman, as partly insane, trekking a humid atmosphere; or more this goddess, as writing through traumas, as never to utter such sorrow: that tipsy sentence; that crow to peak; as to reel it in taken aback. I shake from tremors, accustomed to chaos, to have lived in beauties: this daft man, adrift a deaf chorus—this deep admiration; as seeing strangers—our culture diverse—as peering at anger; to meet that mistress, seated in dignity, speaking of a glass of wine. I laugh to remember—this cautious response, as I dashed for clearance. It comes that way, this sweet nectar, both irked and vexed—for beauty sings, slipping into crevices, our song as amazing. I want for tales, as long it lives, to have lost so much; while barely to utter—this gift of sins, if one retreats at gracious value: to jaunt through meadows; to encounter a ghost; this manifestation of one’s brains; to utter that truth, as to weaken certain pledges, while at heart a theologian. It comes this way—stressing over karma, aglow by chance—Ephesians; as to feel to read, or to read to feel, nursing this upper chakra. I saw an angel, as unaware of self, living according to perfected rules. I saw value: I heard, Syndicate: I gazed upon attributes; to have that second, kneeling at a loveseat, tugging a glass of Chardonnay; to see that scar, as something indebted, to remember our flaws; where years would sing—of too much aloneness, at sudden, a thumping heart. I sought a doctor, as to discover zilch, while probed by this phenomenon. I went for deeper, as guided through Spirit, this entity of professors: those prayerful nights, as generating mists, to discover that confirmation. I sung of silence, filled with rapture, to add more to those experiences. I went too deep: I lost for senses: I troubled a secret; as found, My Love, toppling into mischief, this art by designs—where artful we play, as becoming attached, destined to extend such rhythms; this mercy of grace, or this grace of mercy, seated at a puzzle; to love by trestle, this fuel of letters, pruning our coals; while one would warn—of seeking secrets—I warn of complaisance; as time is short, where life is hollow, unless, for seeking such secrets: to implant a thought; or thump a heart; or engulf by mist—this tale of arts, as so much more, where a force valley-balls one’s heart. It comes through seeking, a pyre as a spirit, our gall to cross-examine—this caption of souls, our floret this or that, to embark upon a voyage—this force in souls, this sylvan event, this mental wave; to seek at silence, this vocal forest, where our contours begin to testify; as more that woman, singing tacitly, a coppice of a human; where vim swarms, as too, a bit sullen, soaring through frequencies—as more a goddess, to claim for fires, this active effusion. I’m soon to drift, while knitted to structure, a bit for deconstruction; as never tradition, this subtle admission, where one is saying a bad thing; but this is life, a garret as a fire, an umbra as propeller; to see with clarity, this arch of lives, seeking for finding as dedicated to life: our short adventure; our personal samba; our deep exchange!