I sip taurine, popping vitamin B, to ponder a legend;
this miracle woman, as losing voice, while gaining composure. It’s radical
bluebirds, our era of songs, thrumming a trumpet-blast; as blaring insanity, at
woes to love you, at tears to do what’s right. Is it more adventure, a palm of
sodium, or a carved caricature—this art by cygnets, this swan by virtue, our
days appeasing mothers—as manipulation, chewing grounds of coffee, while
blended into justice; this miracle woman, to withdraw affections, as to have found
better; this wake of song-fires, our explosive evenings, as all participated.
It must be genius, this genus of spirits, filtered through genotypes; as merely
outrageous, holding to mystery, while affectionate towards death—this dart to
spine, enchanted with energies, as fueled by something impermanent—while less
communion, becomes more enchantment, where love is forfeited; but never that
volume, as ever that love, while feeling this deep aversion. I’m seated and
floating, spinning into logic, as running through tiny images—where hearts are
found, to believe such lowness—this faraway kiss: that needed force, while
playing pretend, a bit guilty over pain: they do us this way, or love us this
way, while curling into our auras this way: that miracle woman, a soul
forgetting letters, pierced by commonsense: this philosophic, as treasured core
logic, while confronted by feelings; that fiber of mischief, that gutted fish,
those scales to silent eyes; as mother chants, this rant of souls, tugging at
invisibility. I died in you, permeated by distance, to announce something
crucial; but truth to light, this deep chaos, gripping such inner confusion. It
had to live us, this fallen to graces, where hells become sabbaticals; that
hour of dining, to want it so much, as to lose for interests those struggles. I
ponder this way, at odds with laws this way, as casual as dying this way: a
loquat cherry; a lemon strawberry; this sky-convention—to see your eyes, as
melancholic gems, or more this resonant clarity; as charmed to meet, this
greeting of minds, to say something so vague; so more to distance, as pure
enchantment, to admire this miracle woman; as to anger foes, wanting more than
love, this man an inner parade; where time is slanted, at grief that beige,
feeling body aches. We had to adventure, if so I have lost, this frantic
exposure with such brevity; but more to love, as cello-affections, palming a
magpie; if but a wish, this bliss of sorrows, to have courted that silver
feeling; where pain is perfect, this needs to compose, while poking at an inner
image; as soft as pudding, as firm as bark, our contradiction eternal; for I said
a word, to have offended such truths, where something forgone came to pass; or
more that feeling, while holding to error, if but for secret reasons; to perish
so gently, while to live such violence—this silent aura.
