Gripping Father’s Name

Its brutal reigns, that deep appeasement, at detriments a warrior: that peaceful cry; that humble agony; those trillions of demons—as mortal thoughts, or immortal wings, while seated closures: that tiny vex, as perceived a giant, while wrapped in transference: that blatant mother; that far cry; those mystics as monks—or secluded nuns, running through Carmel, headed for Carmelites; to dance at prides, leering at reflections, abused those days of births; where shadows fall, that backwards self, his eyes to spines: aloof and hectic; bright and dead; at terrors for sycophants—that rapid fire, as clutching guts, to awaken screaming; or honors that kef, this sightless savant, an idiot at tortures his face; where dreams appear, scribbled in ink—that spontaneity, as followed with structure, at curses this field of lexicons: those cryptic moons; that into us; those psychs as only others; that mystic sung, those overs clever, this ache by lance a river. We expand distance, realized in closeness, our purpose a bit picky; to caution completeness, to absorb a failing hunch, to want by glance an immortal woman: if sought his soul, that distinct oneness, by lagoons flooded with wretchedness—as melancholia, that gentle nudge—our tribal affairs. I’m seeing daughters, this realm of warfare—our women clawing through sky-pits; to sing his song, as eclectic pressures, without liberties that fallen grace: as pictured gateways; or chiming fires; such immutable tactics; to fly at increments, a petal on a windowpane, a broker as mother—afforded dalliance, or more a sword, while at sexy like flurries—that sun as struck, our stars as segue, afoul a thought peering at monsters. We course this way, at dangers to science, tingling by chase that storm: that daily war; that doting deception; those invisible cries; where God heard, that mountain wailing, by bodes that amazing spirit; to gentle a cause, those psychs at nearness, us mystics at gardens: if lived a soul, at sexy with power, as fully something foreign; to seduce a song, by glens a meadow, a bit too stolid that disguise; as eyes sung, cleaving to metals, while naked a goddess. I dreamt this way, at wars this way, afforded this sinister soul; where love is gray, as love is life, while purely our contradiction; to float by wings, as such debris, while blown to winds; that inner courage, to grip for sinning, while living this despicable comfort. I’m botching prose, at woes a feeling, that addictive personality—while seeking jewels, alive but gone, at horses to gallop by forces—as mother sewed, this infant grave, afforded one voice to swim; that mental praxis; that river’s mystic; those times I fell gripping father’s name.