That Space in Skins (Swanships)

I die that heart, as lived that soul, engraved in mother’s spirit; to adjust mechanics, sessions to bones, that amazing downcast—of falling particles, this inner maze, that flicker of neurotransmitters—or sore that arc, that person’s personality, as reaping our Holy Ghost; to die that second, struggling for breath, to morph into a glowing machine: our temperamental(s); that horrid resistance; to say so little pertaining to mystery. I’m years in, our skin as witness, that woman at membrance her life; to cordial stars, while deep a vacuum, if but to ascend to emptiness: that cagey ark; those Rubik eyes, that myth so close but dying—as too much by information, to flood through experience, at channels this reservoir of mystics; to ache a vessel, as dreamed tomorrow, up by glaciers at three a.m.: if but blue-jays, or jasper-jays, as far as mother shall scream—that liquid passion; that crumbled earth; those teary-eyed blues—to sing yesteryears, that trail of Lucifer(s), as effaced his arc; that tender passion, as theologians by rites, to become that flaming ritual: if but to breath, as darts to souls, while seated experiencing a sudden rainfall: that cryptic fire; that person streaming; our minds to religion; where pictures form, as disposed to witness, that father with child those fallen skies: that turquoise furnace; that inner predicament; that wave wailing, “I’ll never forgive”; as death by self, this page we flee, as leaving one to adjust; this life of actions, while pointing cadence, to ignore a plethora of wrongs; but hell to him, and hell to her, while our backyards are filthy with slime: if but remembrance, that song they sung, deep that forest preaching scriptures. Our instinctive history, so chased a poodle, as fleas running from their heritage. I must retreat, as enlove with essence, our purified excellence: that edgy defensive; that sensitive inheritance; our mothers at wonderland. We live this space, as cordial dreams, a bit to negotiating with vampires; but this is life, as preparing for battle, while at points to take loses: those cryptic souls, as peering into wisdom, so found for lost a fire by rainstorms: our hectic music; our dreamy passions; while alert to rhythms and surely wise enough, that place in havens, to experience behind closed doors—this wealth but vengeance, as seeking our Father, while afforded to meet a series of gods. I’m wrapped in us, too brave to retreat, while too bold to advance: (those wild stories, as leery of evidence, those, “It must be true, for this is life, our thoughts as frightened wolves”): those bleeding scars; as favored a feeling; while hiding that deep affection; this place of reasons, if but to distract, while truths creep through meadows; that slow approach, to devastate lives, while souls fall to guilt; but more by swans, that copious sea, as filled with copious truths; or more to bars, to ward off truths, while singing in a puddle of illusions; this space as deaths, where love has shackles, as born to scars. I love for essence, this root in self, our genetics as purely affective; to surface leviathan, this field of dragons—that cave of trefoils; as lived your mind, to pursue your grind, a young magician. I heart by stars, addicted to spirits, while forgiving this treacherous river; that mother to glory, as I praised her soul, while seated with grandma; indeed, Love, I write to instruct, a bit for abstracts, to have you reading your thoughts; and this is hearts, that place in skins, to see it sitting at cloves.