Thanks Giving Feelings

I’m damn near home, this lethal tenet, afraid to perish—as thought to die, while mercy skates, our psychs carrying frustration: this miracle mile, this fluffy daughter, our mothers needing forgiveness.  I’ve cried today, at thoughts a tender soul, at remorse our grandmother’s funeral.  It gets lonely, peering at existence, formed in this casual monster: that pipe falling, those coca seeds, our parents attempting to see: this rabid heart, at thunder thumps, this two hour ritual: our friends laughing, as but his soul, while finding comforts in a sad dissertation.  I hear oldies, as told kleptic, this telic message: our days to cravings, this blue-shield dynasty, this red-balm casket: our years to hundreds, courted by thousands, as aflame a subtle resonance—this life I chose, as chosen by centuries, too adrift to panic: that formal dress, those jasper tresses, that beautiful graduation.  I was cold a thought, with one grain to give, Please insist this craft by humanness—those bold textures, this tile bleeding, our glue permanently unstuck.  I rode a horse, as feeling pains, to execute as seated this vocal volt: those days to writing, as seething his guts, to fire with accuracies: therewith, a curse, this man watching, this harpoon seeping.  I’m quite reticent, but life to hells, this person seeking weaknesses—to laugh a gander, while to gander a petal, where mother felt good to exist: our frantic aunties, our manic dreams, our cousins to seeking this life: our broken brothers, our terrified sisters, our parents attempting to revoke mirrors.  (I needed love, while to fetter love, where love needed more excitement: this chase running, this goose but an egg, our tarantula(s) needing ecstasies—as but to fathers, as feeling insane, those questions on repeat: our frantic lives, our mythic swans, this ballet by tortures).  Such erumpent passions, drilling for seething, this scythe ripping into intestines: our casual guts, this free living anxiety, those holidays to table plates.  I love a fever, as distant a fever, this contradiction.  I ache a swan, as to ponder infractions, where humans are predicable: this killing presence, this radical performance, our mothers to knees screaming vengeance.  I must confess: this journey towards lightning, while, too, this canvas painted purple.     [I need more, this life by dungeons, this planet to daughters: to listen to music, to read through prose, to die as forgiven unable to accept such kindness: this wretched existence, as fluffed with perfection, to read into life feeling a tender seduction: those rabid hearts, as more his life, to fuel with ecstasies—if but to live, at grains with sickles, at terms with existence: this furious passion, a turkey a symbol, while to voyage upon our pilgrimage—seeing such glamour, those gorgeous spirits, this fluff for sharing through raptures: our curious swans, those siblings dancing, our wafting for scudding this dynasty: that Asian current, those African scars, this mulatto fleeing—as turned to thoughts, that house of pagans, this funeral concerning passions: (as once to glories, if but to sensations, while Love performed a thousand distresses)].  I’m seeing Europe, as roaming Germany, to land in Cuba: our terrible dreams, this lake so famous, this curse so enchanting—where Greece mourns, this shifting by life-forces, our women to Italy: that casual love, as so fulfilling, while captured in a mere moment.  (I adore grandmothers, to listen to grandfathers, those homes filled with grandchildren; indeed, to laugh, as thought it was complete, where children need their parents: this circuit, Love; this marvelous excursion; to realize this group practiced at, Illuminati; to rapture for ruptured, at rails bleeding, bombarded by boxes: that deep cupidity, this eager lion, where mothers desire a slow pace.  It dies that way, as to live that way, as deciding in a jiffy our components: hereto, a voice, leaking sincerities, where cygnets watch while catapulting prayers.  We love this ache, some semblance by life, this grist grounded in hearts: our mawkish outbursts, our inner screams, this frantic elation concerning melodies—that wounded knee, those Native Islands, this ship sinking near its portal: as more to life, while beckoned to sorrows, to kiss a father at pure excitements: that weeping grave; that irenic trestle; those fatidic psalms)!