It
becomes fiction, by inner webs, and fabricating truths.
We
exist flatly, pillaging for motion, while warring against margins; to arrive in
parts, this piecemeal affection, wrestling by firebrand: our underbrush; our
undertow; those raging undercurrents: as faced with chaos, our ungoverned gods,
our dungeon-fraught cities. There comes a time, fevered by love, where
existence becomes compromised; as breathing forever, as if without closure, nor
a chapter with our insignia: at seas by rivers, a poet-pirate, while
desecrating morale; or life by names, to ask for silence, to make love without
names; this nameless battle, as never our insignia, this wretched stranger: our
mirrors screaming; that birth of excitement; as opposed to feeling lethargic.
There comes a trumpet, where ladies lead wars, to tales but death: our
complication; that inner moral; our insidious allegories—as ever immoral, as
broached by Freud, while bleeding our genetics. We came to Jung; such was
bleached as consciousness; such was churned as far-reaching: that infinite literature; our archetypical existence;
or our meta-lives. There comes a
woman, so cold a dream, as defeating all purposes—that winning for losing; that
mental magnet; as energy opposing itself; where men perish, if but a glance,
shearing our lonely souls: that rich contagion; that insidious infection; that
ethic dictating our merry-go-round; as dying to feel, or feeling to die, while
adjusted by delusions; but Agnes loved, where Catherine perished—our tales of
radiant vernacular; that wounded ego, as flogged near death, such as leaping
into fires: our immortal peaks, while cultured by apparitions, as one bleeding
purgatory: those challenged imageries; our visceral carnivals; our gingersnap
ways: or tears our Pentateuch; or crimes our biblic women; or deaths that
prurient capture; to dance by waves, peering into Judith—our imaginations held
hostage. There comes a grave, as accompanied by legacy, where our tombstones
express our activities: that life of funerals, while attempting life—so brutal
a person. We watch in awe, so afraid such dearness, accursed for loved this
encrypted skylight; that evolved soul, as crawled our consciousness, such by
craft a mystical art; that remarkable rhythm, as infused cadence, at glories
for something that’s flawed: our immortal energies; as immortal brains; to have
bathed in pure ecstasy. There must exist, that perfect soul—or else, to
systematic doubts; that space of currency, as captured perfection, or welkin
cosmos; as lives our blight, captive our souls, sinning according to blessings.
