I love us,
as endless swords, to hells with passions: this shimmering gavel, our
electric heists, this velvet insanity; where dreams are livid, this shoveling
chaos, our remote islands: if but to capture, that feral essence, our palms
nailed to extravagance. [It was ghoulish
sights, and tyrannical plights, this manic geared through fantasy: our rigorous
torture, to see with lights, abased, devoid of estrogen. I beckoned life, this rigid Pope, afore a
serious riddle: if but to cadence, as rapid as automatics, to catch for falling
into cantos: this morbid resistance, this challenged existence, to welcome at
wakes this finale: our broken violins, this screaming violence, this touch to
sanity as crossing its wires: wherewith, this insidious capture, while
rapture’d capacities, to enter, at once, seeking censorship]. I ache a trombone, as never for found, an
artifact possessing sheer curiosity: this flavored ghost, at travesties with
queens, this clandestine séance—where thoughts grovel, as sinners perish, to
realize inner subjective-ness: this howling goose, this raven goddess, our
worlds by deaths claiming romanticism. [I
must advance, this thought as, Form,
our realities determined by our beliefs: this space by insights, this steep
intuition, to capture our mirrors as reflections of our inheritance: this
Buddhist swan, this Christian dove, this yogi exposed to pure panic: while
cleaving to precepts, as bases for abstracts, our universes a product of
captured thoughts. [I sense silence,
this world made perfect, our resistance to interrogations; for truths are
evident, for they must be true, else, reflection becomes endless]. (It’s space-time arts, this pool of
bacteria, as controlled divinity: those wakeful eyes, this pot of caffeine, our
cigars burning listlessly—or cathartic trauma, for too much reaching, afield
this tyranny of mind-showers; where love sprinkles, as shattered to bone, this
rabid collision; as tales of insanity, our evil inclinations, this series of
odd events; where rhythm favored—this man of dreams, despite this soul at
territories; to compass life, or flit to waft, outstretched while flying: this
miracle hymn, as tragic potential, to love for fragments this vying feeling:
those fretful thoughts, as wither those tones, or silence for decades peering at
realities: this facial twitch, our hairline agendas, this man speeding for
chasing yellow lights: to rebuke with time, this burning lament, a tear
disconcerted concerning evolution; as, notwithstanding, this feverish appetite,
as reasons to open our future coffins: this gust of abandonment, to sit in awe,
such by rambling windows: our tattered hearts, as illustrious screams, if but
to possess this gem by eternities: this wishing by wells, as Love’s embedded,
relentless to forgetting such intimate séances: as more he’d perish, dying for
living, while Love appears bitterly fragile). I cut as dying, this spider’d anxiety,
running by structured feelings: this deep emission, to explode essence, by
nature a Hindu art: or metaphysics, straddled by epistemology, to find sheer
resistance through human doubts: this violet sky, our lavender grass, this
in-wood interior: that spacial frontier, this galaxy to random acts, while more
to credit human conceptions—as born to emotion, where tradition trumps
scripture, this favor to hearts claiming existence; where luggage stinks,
afloat driftwood, as ashes trickle upon flush carpeting: where something was
kept, as something was gained, to reason as benefiting by resistance: our
numbing naps, by wanton disregard, while cleaving to something that flares
fires. It becomes distance, where
danger is perceived, an entire relationship founded upon straw: by dauntless
smugness, or sheer social-poison, to catch us laughing at treacheries: this
soul with feelings, longing for his kingdom, to arrive a product of
misperceptions: to prithee forgiveness, while staring forward, where most
tolerate our treasured poets: this vocal rill, as tugging for truths, where
complaisance becomes by order a law: that steep trombone, to rattle blood,
while feeling shipwrecked…as losing lights, or such by pain, to enter one last
womb.
