I spark a clove, suspicious about life,
angled for mischief—this inner kingdom, those raspy dreams, that clairvoyant
voice; as died a man, by dusty ashes, at birth a seventh trimester. I amaze feelings, a certain thump, this
acrobatic brain: this spirit-wimble, at tender chaos, while present to wrestle
psychotic features: that outer glow; those wellish cries; this deathless
existence. It would to pains, this light
flickering, our screams at molehills—to imagine mountains, as if through
friendships, this gleam that passionate tyranny: our cold mornings, nestled
closely, too far a curse to plead innocence—that vacant lot, those
remote-controls, such as ambition to love rawness. I held a scar: I warred a fire: I thought of
psychs those screams—as brains flooded, or missing those targets, to become
this essence studied: those far-ago dreams, that boon to lights, this cultic
art: as known a menace, lethal for missing, our psychic physics; that fatal
fleeing, as dying his life, to hold for life that emblem: our mental anthems,
our graduations, this world too small for multiple lovers…as fought his heart,
losing for deaths, at terrors this crying legacy: those cultures at battle, to
mingle as contemning, this inverted contempt…that beige Impala, that opus
nightmare, such intangible concrete—to usher for church, or pastor for
funerals, at births this crowd that running face…. I courage with woes, this midnight calm, to
feel as thoughts a swan: those years to love, this inner kernel, our days to
secerning between emotions—those broad feelings, those palatial graphs, this
inner suspicion…as motion breathes, to force perfection, our women dying for
clearance…. I heard madness, as merely a
lad, studded in future agonies: this fleshed woman, that lurid liquor, this
feeling as thoughts to feel us. It comes
with lashes, this rich inheritance, our cadence pollinating life: this fuel as
driven, this gasoline guzzled, this fire a spark as blank an universe—to see
your heart, that infant swan, at peace by existence—while yearning for closure,
this door as breeched, our cartoons striking intimate nerves. I loved at sight, as if all to ambition, to
meet again losing love: our mental fables, as grains of persistence, as
subsistence stitches admirations—that inner indigo, this igloo sanity, our
private delusions—as to that life, as intimate writers, while bleeding into
reality. We feel relentlessly, to have
but subtle attractions, while pleased to feel as if completed: that fleeting
earth, as sensitive waves, while adjusting our collars—that seldom adventure,
while needing breath, this bestial inclusiveness—as eyes water, as tattoos
scream, while perfect an event where cliffs were deaths: whereto, this inner
meaning, as deciphering cadence, to grit with passion this extensive journey—that
broken clown suit, this steep realization, our swords at tactical feasts. [I need for living, this vest your reach, to
come to thoughts—where love is ridiculous, while spirit becomes fantastical, or
existence becomes too encoded: that far cry, this gelid fan, our weather a
signature of human activities: where love tackles, as subduing doubts, this
plane pushing through clouds: if but a star, as caged a vessel, to fall for
hearts two tears closer—that magnet grin, those sullen elements, this pressure
to shift perceptions—as loving this hell, or hellish to heaven, while
rejuvenating quarterly. I must exist, at
treacherous churns, incurring but a dozen dreams—where Love was testy, at
seconds gentle, at moments jealous: this feudal soul, this concrete grayness,
where existence stands before a jury: those vernal eyes, this ontic gaze, this
‘thing’ pertaining to some root—as deep in trenches, running for arriving,
where one meets a plethora of representatives: that one hiding, as distant from
reality, while racing for rising through reality: that faithful call; those
rubric eyes; this soul at love by antics; as appalled but pulled, or close but
afar, our minds to mirrors].
