Saturday, July 29, 2017

Unyielding Connections

I sense images, gently to breathe, a daughter by gavels—to claim life, so low an anchor, at terrors to love; such complication, our rites as fusions, to bleed acidic sweat: that casual torture, as awakened that moment, by presence a killing ache—where silence appears, that slight so emphatic, to rearrange a torpedo; as lived our nights, by sweltering clauses, to panic at that sudden question; such as gladiators, that warm infusion, to feel by mystic wells—that mother teasing, a garden of patience, while tilling our panicky soil—where arts are love, insomuch, as death, to vow this unyielding union: that cold valley, as trekking with silence, to arrive by eye-veins. I sense images, by welkin wells, our cultures merging beauty: that aesthetic grin; that feature by cues; this person that can’t be as sameness: that chilly wind, by a private room, as to open windows—by setting free, that ladybug spirit, as ceilings rattle; indeed, by images, accustomed to phantoms, at arrival to witness a ghost grieving: that disappearance, as caught off guard, or deliberate an intervention; as known by name, to shift that inner person, accursed so long it becomes public: those careful thoughts; that angelic wonder; such as persons to inherit fire: this intricate shovel, as digging his brain, at present moment, a bit uneasy—to abort vengeance, as lived that soul, while whispering at grandma. I’m sensing breath, one of but a dozen methods, insofar, as manipulating energies: this inner chaos, as outer reasoning, while inverting his heartbeat; to fly to grace, a coat of LED fleece, to retreat at exhaustion—that treasure as skating, by minds an art, painting for arising through skin. I’m grabbing mind-beats, aloofly intimate, at wails, that inner sound—to cage as fleeting, this breath as depth, to arrive to self sparking a clove—where passion’s harnessed, while growing and budding, so charged by lights: that senseless ache; that profound effusion; our days a tell-sign—where wires cross, to ponder existence, while a name slips into focus.    

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...