At wonders, that stupendous figure, those dreams
inverted—that miracle life, those jaguar eyes, this message losing texture—as casual
passion, to feel our essence, at loose tendencies: our liquor bleeding, our
knees screaming, our throats soaring by wailing: if but to love, than dye us
emotion, while feuding intestines, [as fueling agonies, where feedings become
nausea]. I’m existential, a pragmatic
fool, placed in something epistemic—those arcs seaward, our seafaring dreams,
at treasures scraping cloud-boards. It
felt good to die, that trepid anguish, that trebled heartline—as surgeons
cried, piecing valves, our bones painting portraits—as back to fawning, at love
with pliers, our bolts resistant, [our hairs on edge, our sparrows morphing
into seraphim(s)]. It felt good to live,
racing yachts, dragged for buried that shore-tier—those rabid feelings, to give
by hurting, aloof to becoming fixed—this dark dementia, as fetid with energies,
as fettered to fevers—that brain left-bound, that hanger sitting still, our
eyes pushing seances. It felt passion to
love, as receiving tissues, this spirit at admiration—to sing by laughing, to
languish for flying, at furious flares lethargic. I’d dye those nights, as arms were foreign,
to feel this irrational self—as often a glance, to soar an island, at
oxymoronic truths—that music, those
cymbal eyes, as symbols running. I’ll
soon chase, as never sprinting, as close as back-hearts should permit: that
beating upstream, that whisker shifting waves, that catfish waxing brilliantly—at
laughing tortures, so for rated purple, peering at cyan dreams—this passion, as
writing his life, while ignored for breathing.
(I knew us, those years at meditations, these winds to plummet his
mirrors; but never at love, as love would die, so more to soul-mates—this liquid
waiting, these tendons aching, his liver laughing—as torn for turquoise, at
terrors mahogany, this trestle a symbol of our wailings: so why this death, so
cold a picture, as captions read disasters—that failure to lie, while tears are
sprinting, this muddy residue). It was
told to live, with little as guidance, this fiddling through meadows our
indecisions; to un-laugh life, as unwound souls, a vowel as re-wounded. I called furiously, to frantic a failure,
where daughters would ravish forgiveness—this spider’s venom, as webbed his
heart-traps, seated in a pit with snakes—that constant jazz, those blues
screaming, our games as passing time—to envelope attributes, to see
perfections, to ignore with heart-curves: that tugging constellation, those
rabid seconds, this feeling so good to destroy us—as monetary flux, or
forbidden dreams, while feeling perfect.
