Swagger II

While afloat a pond, staring agaze’d, peering at Chanel Denims: those fabulous legs, as encased mediocrity, feeling some sort of texture: our Da Vinci Dreams, coated in Cartier Diamonds, feeling some sort of texture: that anxious high, scuffing a Prada Pouch, our palms cleaving to powders; those Gucci Pictures, our lives at cameras, our Maybelline Nightmares; as casual fun, our drums to echo, our hearts as enclaves: our women of hats, as never a name, insanely jealous: those nomadic cries, tithing for freedoms, headed to one last confession—as breaking free, those religious chains, a soul captured by science: that beige rug; this ink by corners; that wine spot; while leaking senses, to reimagine life, living by existential tortures…as freedom comes, that addictive feeling, while created by a stranger’s palms: our filmmaking arcs, as died an artifact, immortalized in art: those grim paintings; that gothic air; our atmosphere flushed in harsh odors; to die a soul, as to live a spirit, featured at mental photography. Such virtual madness, leering at graphics, afraid to utter sound-prints; our skies to glory, as treble to bass, while threshed by that trumpet blast: as individuality, by essence a triumph, a bit too lonely that faint of heart; as captured in slavery, an exile The Many, flushed by “desire and rage.” Our crystals are moons, those escaping eyes, gripping a Nautical Rope: if but to wails, our wooden shoes, peanut butter to our Wonder Bread. I know for errors, as camouflaged by enthusiasm, a tare too many capitals; but this is living, such poetic license, fiddling a dog collar: that inner hound, as sound as misery, as cold as distance: that upclose terror, gripping an Elmo Doll, amazed that life is mosaic: our treacherous passions, as locking doors, our closets flooded with debris; as leaking forward, that scent to souls, our countenances screaming. Such hats and gowns, streams and visions, flicking rubber bands: that snare of life, that hectic needlepoint, our thread too flimsy to withstand—that outer grime, by faces our Grim Reaper, attempting to persuade our sweatshirts; while cowgirls gallop, and romantics are pensive, at minions for comfort: by deep affections, feeling some sort of texture, abased and lonely by joys; that cryptic text, as bred in brains, our vintage emotions. (“You start and I’ll call”—this portrait of Mexico, abandoned to leaping architecture: that fatal run, to outwit capacity, stationed between trial and error: that terrible smile; those bones to cheeks, such restless-defeated politics; as souls of strangers, or babies to cameras, while years at parted by asking questions; to see us nodding, that inner exercise, a soul finished forced to fires).