I
lapse into confusion, this frantic bruise, to see those eyes—as curbed a
villain, so gracious a million, to feel for purpose as driven—this liquid
heart, as ruined a friend, to amuse a billion suspects. We court silence, as to
infringe passions, while accustomed to dying; that miracle suspected, this
house as filthy, our clothes sprawled upon couches—that easy-chair gossiping,
that music as riddled, our days seeking for clarity—to adjust a current, as
burning that symbol, our orchestra affected that woman; as coming fluids,
immersed in three persons, at furies for twain hearts; where mother arose, as
playing pretend, those chills beneath skins. I flourish to perish, while
sneezing powders, those years running through gardens: that frantic heaving;
that gorgeous scar; those psychotic imageries; to affect motion, as effective
pleasures, where father grinned insanity. I push a passion, laughing at
mirrors, a bit too sane for sanity—at ushers with questions; at priests with
presence; at drumbeats by daughters; that tribal ache, to love for mother, as
appealing to sanity—that gray fever, that Buddhist anger, our years to adverse
calamities—where aunty mourns, as seeing reflections, to come that place of
indecisions—this wealth of insight, as garnished his brains, to aflame come
mania. I’ve raised a person, this inner aflight, while neglecting a swan; as
born to grandparents, too sick for silence, while afforded deep abrasions: that
mystic anchor; those florid visions; that ache with Hindus a galaxy in tunes. I
heard a psych, to utter a word, while still to liquid spirits. If but to
perish, as never to rebirth, we would deprive our legacies—as immortal kings,
or galaxy queens, by rites a psych’s infusion. I’d love life, if not for pain,
while addicted to rain—that trauma he loved, while embracing mother, those
drugs razor’d upon glass tables: those see-through mirrors, as reflecting
Rihanna, while professors muse from a distance; this safe excursion, as sensing
travail, to come to that barren woman. I love a curse, as sensing a genius,
that peril so explained: if but for father, this clock to walls, as heaving
vestibules at liturgy: that furious demon, as cold to waters, to laugh by
cadent expectations—that place of aches, to sense that face, while amused we
loved.
Oh
to fly a swan, as to afloat a kite, sipping for nibbling loquats—where mother
dies, as laughing those tears, to remember a kind heart: if but to deaths, this
fury of passions, our worlds would collapse; indeed, for chants, as ranting his
brains, this inner training—to test by chance, as deep in concentration, to
arise Hildegard—that mystic art, as arousing frustration, to plead that silence
awakens; to hear her volume, by treasure that chorus, to echo a tiny
whisper—this space of mercy, as cursed a savage, to embark for justice—that
trenchant laugher, as adjusting sin, while crying Christianity. I, too, about
laughs, according to outspoken tenets—as immersed a scar, that fabulous woman,
to drench sensation—in something lethal, to muse with time, while created a new
being: our miraculous brains, as chiseled with grains, while threshed with
convicts:
to
affect sensations, while living by destiny, where swans drift through graphics:
that constant tug, as pulling at riches, where private thought becomes
impossible.
