I streamline catastrophes, this leading
aura, as casual our heroine sins—to mention with nuance, scratching eczema,
floored through florescent tears—this inner poltergeist, our morbid phantoms,
this wealth incarcerated in resistance: that gorgeous tenor, that bass-cave texture, our cravings reaching for
disasters: if but to fly, sipping puce-wines, at tender sessions this addict
mother; where faces are flushed, while bones are swollen, at sudden a sneeze
adventure: our hectic scratching, this inner tingle, that phoenix intoxicated with
lithium—as dreamt a scar, to membrance those thighs, as cried for missing her
womb: our cagey gyrations, our lazy orgasms, this place in flesh as
melting—where northerners mourn, as invested in risperidone, our manic sexual
sessions—this voice she loved, as steeped in depression, to forsake this
hypomanic. I’m dreams to tears,
scratching unto blood, to trickle into a series of treacheries: that inner
grandpa, this reflexive grandma, our ways to craving, Beyoncè—or more to
vexation, aborted but living, this inner excavation—to die with glory, as to
live this story, while Malcolm avenges misdirection. It seems this way, to adventure this chance,
while at love respecting distance: those morbid shadows, our actress vessels,
while menacing through ironic situations: our plural sensations, as thrusting
blindly, to come to arts while vanish’d this womb: this steep inflection, our
climax skies, this face as captured centered in membranes. I’ve loved for dying, while tortured for
living, at fatal influences: this wretched heartbeat, those ceilings falling,
this want for children: if but this woman, as perfect a scar, to come to that
lethal agreement: where doves wail, as sealed in ecstasy, this mythical
elation—those sullen cries, that welkin torture, our Siena adventures—where mother
arises, at bent through chimes, our in-room weathers: that raining mirror, that
crystal fan, those voices raging for destruction—as lived a current, this
ghostly mystic, while to lead for dying if but to re-adventure. I’m cold a failing, pausing at Taco Bell,
this hankering for beef burritos: if but to relish, in torn vacancies, to
arrive as jutting through sexual dalliance: this magnificent vessel, as more a friend,
while at love dying revenges: that casual anger, as floored with sessions, this
aggression becoming our masters—in much disagreement, this soft spoken snake,
as ever this want for utter carnage—as pure mistakenly, while craving to die,
if but to fleet through detriments. I
love for falling, as craving for singing, this turn of terns peering at
catastrophes: our welkin rituals, as welkin deaths, to laugh at sinister
advantages: this itchy flesh, as turning for singing, while embraced a sudden
adventure: that cautious eye, as inverted deeply, by seconds ravished by strangers—where
mother laughs, as solemn a tear, to remember that this is our child. I must retreat, this wealth of psychiatry,
where too much offends our audience: that perfect person, as never an
inclination, while seared through a closet’s guillotine: that ancient feeling,
that drilling through piracies, this hankering for pains—where Love is
brilliant, as too much sex, to come to terms dying our resurrection: this soft
person, as needing direction, where we want for total uprising: if but to die,
while steep in flesh, where it felt good to love—this wretched center, this
dejected rug, our faces to slime as feeling elation. I told for deaths, as at love this vessel, to
see with purpose this florid escalation: our hypertension, this bipolar maniac,
our sexual cadence spent with sacrifices: that choking of necks, that pulling
of arms, this slam in hearts as shutting doors—to avenge with grace, that
session of tenderness, this remote island as more than warm breasts. [I love what we streamed, as more this
resurrection, to find with time this need to accept catastrophes: for life was
good, as love was rare, where two could have given more].
