This
thing with guts, flowing by heartcaves, becoming obsessions; those inner
armoires, our garments aloof, while we steady for character: that sudden fury,
to influx a spark, where twins ignite fire; to become with time, this entity as
chased, while offended by resistance—as pacing forward, to slant towards walls,
our vestibules paved in ironies; as casual fools, by nights to slaughter,
abrasive by nature: that cultic dream, this force of wings, as afloat by grays
our churnings; where Love was perfect, prior to humanity, as one flawed by
experience; that cryptic phoenix, at such phallic appeal, by weaponries to
retreat; as hostage a storm, or burgundy a grave, so enslaved to justice; as so
much a scar, insofar, a scream, where love was myth during distresses. We grog
sorrow, a vat to misery, such symbols distressing life—our cold existence,
forever at protection, as so involved we fail to exist; that gravid flame, as
gravid rain, enchanted by something phrenic: that inner music; that silent
voice; our paws as portraits upon clouds; to feel for courage, that revving voltage,
as undergoing shock-treatment; this weft of feelings, while knitted to chaos,
attempting to fathom mystery; while proud to give, this fever to swans, our
vatic estimations—where vox is cadence, as cadence is fire, our minds marred by
love—to sing eternal, this bell as
chimes, as heard our knell of times—that seated attendance, peering at a
carcass, by growth to realize our fading faces; that turn in urns, to nibble
but a taste, our fanes as fantasts screams; such febrile states, appearing
picturesque, our faceless portrait abrupt—where signs flux through perception,
this participation, hunting for correlations—if but a dream, this fixture of
existence, to find one living by pure imagination—while knowing it lives, so
detached from self, at claims to court realities: that nimbus flickering, as
appearing in presence, our eyes dictated by our brains—as wishing upon
trefoils, our hearts asunder, our spittle crimson wine; therewith, are
illusions, as paved in textures, while fumbling our expressions—to become that
person, an urbane expressionist, or more a flushed saint; as courting delusion,
while never so alive, to realize by facts that courting of impressions—to
perish wit Love, a fathom as a grave, a pillar as a bride, but reality as a
mule: this nexus of passions, as sensing disjunction, while, nonetheless,
chasing ponies—or more for unicorns, that serious acclamation, such tenderness
by whispers; to spread for rumors, while life is watching, to realize his
thoughts serve a pattern: our sultry gemstones; our chapel infinities; that
dreamlike trembling; as severed by lights, while torn through windows, our
bodies afloat magnificence. (I loved as seeing—this crucible of crucifixions, a
portrait by his ceiling; to hope her name, as photic as electricity, while frightened
to hear rejection; as courting winds, to attend by graces, this funeral of
screams—our cultic plights, as mere conjecture, by rites known as chemistry;
this flux of science, or our religiosity, to go that space where demons wail:
if but a scar, I’ll live freely, or but a test, I’ll die grieving; but life is
love, as misappropriated textures, where eye-gazing ignites neurotransmitters;
this voice of waves, as crazed musicians, while others harness that incredible
sensation). Afire we sail, our raging seas, headed for our Odyssey—where oceans
breathe, this flux of gods, our minds whet for encounters; that sheer
convergence, as anthropomorphic, studied by centuries—as feeling her life, in
exchange for his, where two are sanctioned to exist as strangers: this tale of
droves; our weeping jubilation; while made privy to those joys of chaos.
