I
spotted owls, adrift blue lights, tugging at jasmine electricity. I clutched,
falling by guts, at suffers that effusion; while mother cried, this dying of
pages, our volta(s) filled with blood. I shifted by churns, this haunting of
souls, seeping at silence: this woman laughing, while cringing convulsions,
apparent as cultic miseries; to grip a palm, by tails of hares, fingers steeped
in mire; our inmost dreams, as inrush illusions, to awaken clawing at midair:
this sign as lethal; this woman as witchcraft; our wounds as elements we
function; to abandon caution, while thrust in passions, at mentions this
vehicle to mirrors: that deep coma, afflux by blackouts, at terrors to have
sexed by delicate veins—that rich enmeshment, entangled in wilderness, kissed
as bawling unlocking guts—this reason to perish, a deer by lights, a baby eight
weeks to sun-nights: those closed eyes; that dark circle; those precious limbs:
too warm a blanket; too cold a crib; as mother’s ribs are perfect exposure. I
shifted by churns, enlove with vanity, this terrible excursion—as puddles to
algae, or deserts to sands, this combination too close to reach: those soft
classics; those visual cartoons; that moon as lit for two—where father by
wands, as Bugs by cunning, that hint by tears our Roadrunner; insomuch, as
patience, for something leaving, while accorded mercies to plead insanity:
those rare gifts, as won with tragedy, at course to have died a legend; as we
finally see, this music of wails, at cadence to exist at torches—where series
explode, as cold as daisies, our gardens flushed with pink experiences—while
set to perish, at arms one vest, to have loved this exit of existence: those
furious souls; at reach to touch; at hells to abort life: so extensive our
aches; so immortal our fluids; so remote our nesting fumes: that tragic odor,
at courses of fevers, while to have loved that untouchable feeling; as deep
sickness, to want invisibility, as to venture immortality: that soft kitten,
our fingers to ears, our souls at instincts to scratch; as seething injustice,
as never to hear your voice, while adrift a anchor of faith: that casual gait,
as sexy as Monroe, as deadly as Simone; to have cultured womanhood, so extinct
such admiration, as to have morphed into worship: this earthly goddess, as
chiseled with scars, while at joys to ruin souls: that sighted loom, as deep
for terrors, at mercies to bliss through insanity; as archeries grieving, or
souls bleeding, to have met at loses afar; that coarse separation, as reaching
into affections, as one worries to no avail; so conscious as irony, to venture
upon wrongness, as if such must exist this case: that harsh symphony; that
barreling orchestra; that harrowing tragedy; where ours would live, afloat an
arc, afforded one kiss.
