We love as tortured, this stylish game,
affected for driven killed within: that gracile tear, those fallen waves, this
flux in hearts by craft-lights—to seethe with justice, as found in courts, peering
at envies this gracious figure: that woman lawyer, those dim treasures, this
clamp to hearts a symbol. I ache
silence, at deep remorse, something alike to being human: this psychical test,
as deserts bleed, our wrists chained to morality: that anxious creature, that
devious pastor, this welt as slashed his throat: if but for momma, if but for
father, those above seeking clemencies: our radical graves, as breaded in dust,
to fury over scriptures: that feminist dream, such as beauty ignored, reaching
for finding womanly terrors. I chalice,
grieving, listening to oldies, jazzing in private—as far too familiar, abased
for fallen, this aesthetic man. I called
a spirit, for mother writhes, stirring in limbo—that frantic lamb, cut for
leaping, this gnosis tree: insomuch, a breath, to journey for Christmas, this
hex buried in London. I roam Paris,
ventured in gorgeous arts, to visit with life this German test—as threshed in
Jerusalem, our histories our dictates, fueled for flaming a furious curse. I see a heart, as pledging allegiance, but
cut for leaking, pleading, Father! I
knew a loser, this vicious machine, to come to life breeding dragons. I heard a soul, to resonate a sentence, at
bars threshed for believing again! It could to love, if cores are shattered,
this man fiddling an acorn: those shivery limbs, spaced as magnetic, to admire
for failing his constitution: that devout woman, as still for human, this
uncouth agitation; but never a soul, to court a Cyclops, this eyeful
imagination: that gusset breaking, this ache as lethal, those eyes as fully
analytical—where analyses courts passions, to come to sexual science, while
laughing an inner high-five. I thought
to tendencies: I ventured for excitement: I died to live as dying in sagacity:
this evil intension, as pure physicality, to thrust for laughing (while running
to sierras): that surge of wrongdoing, this man beside himself, that soul too
alluring to captivate; but life in droves, as forbidden from islands, to close
with perfect indecision: this itching nerve, this florid heart, this woman at
devil’s creek; as earnest a vessel, while hidden a wound, to flee as congested,
barfing his guts. I’ll do this part,
staring at this psychiatrist, as never a glance—this artful cadence, as strict
authority, while a palpitation dictates distance: that singing pearl, as thrust
for actions, to pause a taste at Taco Bell; indeed, those triglycerides, this
man at edges, but a fury to a mulatto soul; that freedom key, as free to die,
while love seemed an ache in minds: this sky-fly danger, that titillating,
Agnes, this nun pruning for loving Keri—if but a scream, as distant from life,
repeating, Marvin Gaye. I love a swan,
as tears to freedom, where mother loathes his soul; for thoughts were concrete,
while actions were abstract, this coming to self to shame our mirrors—that
steep reflection, as a troubled soul, to court with violence something to feel:
as purely desensitized, while a fleece of emotions, this terrible, walking
contradiction: that mawkish sentiment, those years at studies, this woman he
had to pursue—as rabid an address, as sentenced to romanticism, while denoting
a clinical breakage; as, notwithstanding, this belly of passions, this Chevy
man, at torments to realize something was missed: that trip to France, that
sketch of nudity, that axe at private heartaches: if but to shores, kicking
sandy mud, fiddling with sea-turtles—that flying seagull, those kernels of
grapes, this vignette recited perfectly—as pure romance, this idyllic soul,
fleeing for flying into downcast’d epiphanies: those discerning eyes, as
finding life, a child as symbolic fortresses.
I never could, to see those eyes, asking, Why you have destroyed our family: that terrific seed, that
precocious seed, that mimic at a scarf tugging her throat; indeed, it’s quite
graphic, where daughters love structure, as sons love father. I end with Tina, this man turning back, but
angry at self decoded as terror.
