We’re oriented, our treble drums, this
angst so colored his brains; this second to realms, as occasioned by life, at
wings flipping for flying; that inner tumbler, that mental coupe, our anguish
pictured as elation—this voice cleaving, as something blankly, at arts chorused
as sentenced: that a.m. movie, our lives in cinemas, our coffee a smidgen
sweet. I met a daughter, so alive to
gambits, so steep a torn garment—those fluid charms, as watching, head tucked,
at seconds so fragile; that fretted style, as concerned with Gucci, peering at
Dior jewelry—those burgundy moons, as left his soul, tugging by an orange
sun—this feared horizon, as breathless our heart-wakes, a pigeon by his
lagoon. I saw eyes, colored in sable
truths, accustomed to keeping secrets. I
felt aches, this life so decorated, albeit, perfect, a family of addicts: this
whistle calling, this Coach briefcase, our brains a lawyer’s lounge. I imagine readings, through reach, grime, and
city-fires, where truths are altered by tender disguise—that vigilant
caretaker, those vigilant members, those vigilant extensions—as crazed this
life, comparing perfections, realizing this plighted mother: those porcelain
roses, as sweetness by kisses, our freezers seeping into hearts—that beige
altar, that flowing mane, such as curls too precious for non-color—this maze
screaming, our arts to miseries, this voice as pure concentration: that
infinite swan, those infinite songs, at cravings peering at blurred lines—as
mother dances, oblivious of yesteryears, at seconds to erasing a series of
infractions—this place in brains, our torn delusions, this privilege we live to
exist: our cautious selves, so driven a scar, at plural infatuations—as bring to
life, our magazine fantasies, a vest of souls pleading sanity—as cried our
nights, this desert crocodile, our knees as alligators; as, nevertheless,
tugged for torn, our innate instincts: our wingless guts, flipping for flying,
at tyrannies seeking clearance—as never our sun, our jasmine stars, where it
was good to suffer—that space in brains, as laughed our adversaries, to come
through punishments a tear closer to Spirit.
I saw tendencies, even a replica, while roses wilted: tomorrow’s agony;
our seas as shipless; our dreams as pressed by fierceness—as sung her life, our
existence paralleled, this phantom our genes aside those embers—whereas, it
felt good to deceive, while up-surging emerged, to witness a silent curse—as
steep stimulation, to receive as given, fleeing from mud to clear waters: this
sudden vigilance, as never that soul, for life refuses obedience—those
innovations, as sought to sing, this liturgy by existence: that caged bird, as
meant to soar, as fleeing to college—or more a seed, concerned fully, as living
to fix our empty souls—as incumbent madness, plus, emotional blackmail, indeed,
a soul as deprived of living—but never this sanction, as perfect is home, while
all others are diluted. Those eyes will
see, while others drift in silence, as those eyes grow livid: this country of
vampires; this wilderness of leaches; our sanities responding to chaos—as
living that person, sung for sought, as sheer vexation—those rubies
annunciating, those rhinestones emphatic, our calculations pointing at manners
by hell; but more to sightless, as felt her dream, to give but enough to
subjugate—but souls are detours, especially, ours, for kingdoms spread our
brains—those witty, Mestizos, that
inner compass, this want for excellent perception—as we must confess, blindness
is sheer hell, while others relish in false dimensions: this casual appeal, as
broken a scream, flavored through sheer deception: those rolling blackouts;
those confused statements; our years to listening!—if but for cleansings, as
never a solemn sentence, to adjust, enacting, repudiating tendencies: that life
as brilliance, those cages as mental, this picture-graph distorted.
