I
wonder can you take this from me.
I’m
sick that way…
…I
see Givenchy, this pitch black cat, our criminal cries [as aloof to peace,
while measured by illnesses, at tours laughing with Sullenness] this piano
sunken, our rites abusive, this color formed in meekness [that terror flying,
our eyes watering, this inscrutable agony]. I see glory, our reveling horrors,
to know she would by Satan’s willingness [our rebellious seconds, comforted by
crocodiles, at realists treacheries]…whereto, such silent volume, such sketchy
analyses, our mental leather trekking aside Berluti’s—this frivolous chase, as
compels our brains, to want for clearance—this swimming disaster; those pagan
centuries, this nature by warfare—as died our angst, to arise our anxieties, to
touch by chance this farce—those warming palms, that magnificent illusion, this
tugging at sorrow—to eradicate segments, as lies our alligators, our marshy
swamps to brilliance: this fusion of rain, this Boss briefcase, our papers
incriminating by contradiction—as livid an arc, the slowness of times, this
finding for capture—our anklet sores, gripping for pulling deaths, while aflame
our sky-winters: those sable leaves, once so fervently green, as falling our
deciduous hours: this puffing of cloves, to erase that voice, our lungs
clattering soundlessly: this lure through passions, to know by endless winds,
our northern current has perished; [this achy nuance, as appalled to breathe,
staring by a pond’s reflection] this beige Terrier, our mimics for closure, our
petting our palms to miseries [as loved our hearts, this bag of popcorn, this
fury by pigeons] that cyan necklace, as chased his brain, to witness adornment
by simplicity [our cryptic frequency, as to outlive existence, to find for
faces a million images [those inner portraits, as acclaimed through jests, to
sit painted in delirium].
I
wonder can you take this from me.
I’m
sick that way…
…it
was us at wars, this picture bleeding, as never that caption [our music but
thoughts, to come by fevers, as introduced to our mirror’s reflection] this
wealth as purity, this purity as novelties, those novelties as exploration [to
ponder sensations, at treasure’s cleats through terror, our souls reeking of
Cocktails: this foreign page, as inked in unbelief, to season our autumn
thoughts: our blue jazz; our Red Sea trauma; this foolish feeling seeking its healings] as cultured disappointment, to need that feeling, as dreaming those
Spanish fireworks; as livid a curse, but something soothing, such instrumentals
our back-current: that provocation, as subtle a storm, to pull trough lights,
our stomachs growling curiosity—as splendid by deaths, as attracted to
sensations, by cult that satin touch [if but to lose, as abused for love, this
feeling adrift by souls—to heal by airbeams, to die as resurrected, to voice by
lance, Eternity.
I
wonder can you take this from me.
I’m
sick that way….
