Such
as fair glory, our beauty in bottles, as advertised through waves; that inner
succession, as made manifest, those jasper dreams—as visions that life, running
at sundown, aloft a city of phantoms; as curved his life, while curbed his
pains, our palms filthy with dice; to grip a clump of grass, kneeling at black
oak, a bit by sparks that inner soulquake: those fresco sorrows, a swamp of
mayflies, this emission into wilderness: that jasmine face; that psychic rasp;
our spirits borne to fires—as casual fools, or wildlife peasants, either/or, a
song unsung. We appear unsteady, pegged by images, and no one’s amazed: as
using souls, while discarding souls, as said souls grieve. We laugh to feel,
this hysterical rain—our mirrors as picturesque—that fatal wild-growth, our
coffins as speaking, our minds as ill-receptive: that swamp of mayflies; that
tragic totem; that hymn chastising sin: if but an ache, this leitmotiv, that
recurrent stream; as captive souls, this melodrama—our lives painted at
darkness; to see at souls, this tomb of knots, as falling forward gripping
guts: that cold function, as sorrow breathes, this ballad melancholy. I’m a
blank papyrus, knitted into destiny, a crypt to a soul this fleeing; as captive
his life, our threaded eclipse, as so far in that broken perfection; to
jettison instincts, as webbed in instincts, while trained through instincts:
this cryptic war; our grout to crevices; as said would breathe in poison: our
unshod hearts, that facial tsunami, those nights at prayer for teardrops. It
comes with fury, this inner justice, while at odds with life; our nibs to
brains, that inner doorwoman, our blood as mortar; to see his life, jeweled in
chaos, our song as unsung: that leitmotiv, as centered in miseries, while
patient at kindness; or more suspicious, as peering at mirrors, laughing as
escaping our straightjackets. There’s fiery duets, this cadenza of souls, as
purchased through love longevity; to soothe with purpose, this chorus as
chasing, that love as thrumming: this course in souls; this wave in oceans; our
cry by seas that echo to hearts: if be it that gentle; if be it that gray; our
banda(s) as mere our brains.
