What
for wrongness, as singing wrongness, as knowing for wrongness; to push that course,
affronting Socrates, at hells with Plato, pleasing a secluded crowd; where love
is death, as arts are wicked, by which seduction becomes pitted? But more to
beauty, this fevered vex, at teasing sensations; to float by volts, that tender
touch, as feeling that feeling: while born to lights, as missing gravity, a
venture by charge our sockets: by terrors a head-storm; even a sky-scrape; our
pieces to dungeons. I lost at pains, this wretched vision, muddy with mire; to
lose his taste, at scars to liquor, protruding ignorance; to fall by grace, as
rising those eyes, sitting a pitted room. It churns a rose, to hear that voice,
as never knowing for sexy: that pill to lies; that sensuous gait; that type for
something we yearn—as cursed a thought, to hear forsaken’d, adrift that
tribunal: that casual sin, as rendering wrongness,
afforded one last soul: that terrible confession, as seasoned in vinegar,
while stirring for sugar; to see those eyes, as flashing his brains, that
countenance crying—as struck depression, that fatal congestion, while at beauty
such anger; where daughters flourish, this cruel treasure, our worlds by nights
one voice; to dance so hardened, projected by thoughts, at measures that salty affection;
to cuddle his life, so smooth a villain, at arcs a bit too advanced; where
warriors perish, as islands clash, while sexy affords one last dance. I saw for
skies, this aching mania, by far a cry for help; where arts cringed, while
structure grew, affected by faces that inner camera; as feeling concerned, to
want for gentle, that touch pleading by actions. I’ve lived a river, an
experienced fool, at traffic by isolation—to gaze afar, as to kindle prophecy,
at once, this moving confusion: those captured seconds, that sudden rush, that
inner cartoon. It could be life, this artsy fever, to feel this wave—while
coming with winds, as losing light, but far a treasured sensation; wherewith,
to pause, to ask of mystics, this song we sung: that fabulous journey, this
slight of sweat, our friends at wonders; to see our mothers, crying our aches,
at death our fathers confessions. We love by science, at tears that ache, where
that ride kills our horizon—as back to life, by mere a gesture, at texture a
broken genius. I’ll pace our sun, one sword upon high, as battle continues a
fortnight: if but that truth, as confessed a soul, to realize this inner
rapture: that evil tyranny; that sudden kindness; our passions to scripts
afforded this dance. It scrapes a soul, to bear a scar, as tulips spell this
deep attraction; but never for sexy, as sexy lives, where love is strength; as
more to thoughts, that manic rope, according to this confession. We should to
live, at severed tunnels, captured by a terror-dome—to wrestle lions, bleeding
spirits, effused into sky-dust.
