I feel this type of way: this miracle bleeding, these volt-paws, this tender
attraction: if but for deaths, this Almighty Sword, sentenced to sit before
Eden: our casual converse, that second I met Us, this nonchalant address: as steep refusal, while rendering
hopes, to act this type of way. I tell a tale, this pithy allegory, this
edification—about this golden calf, our cryptic Snake, as raised from death to
purgatory; indeed, this Corvette, this atypical engine, this revving
psychiatrist—while dead a slither, at elated converse, to see with passion this
tale of thieves: our cultic professors, this Irish mechanic, this Danish
paleontologist—that ontic psychologist, this mystery spectator, our
grandfathers at one tear—to seethe our archetypes, as pure archeologists,
connected through genealogies: that ancient contract, this promised daughter,
our distance becoming pivotal instructions; where granny dies, this told
travesty, as sensing this son by a stranger.
I feel this type of way: peering
at what was missed, a bit lethal penetrating barricades, a tear dangerous
behind brigs: this fuel as animosities, this must for control, those political
Panthers. It lives with access, this
soul to treasure excess, this Merle Norman portrait: therewith, this Life,
infatuated with Sophia, at tears this Hindu discovery: our remote tentacles,
this turtle sprinting, this iguana reptile—as lizards to seas, while crawling
wolves, at psychs unable to articulate a cogent sentence: this fear by lights,
as idiot savants, while a swan admires this losing tyranny. I spoke with essence, this Precious forgetfulness,
at laughs a bottle of Merlot; but not for jest, as pheasants to banter, while
petting a dying ferret: those gray insights, to sense deception, where,
nonetheless, we excuse this typical night-scare: hereto, are scars, wherewith,
are paintings, our mental catalogues. I
return to pash, or more sensations, to admire by perfected traits; while not
for perfect, but gifted through diligence, at steep island affairs: this
Burberry scarf, those beige moccasins, that metallic shadow: at terrible crises,
a man to edges, this voice contending our Human Condition: that treacherous
device, this cosmic robot, our L’Oreal concealing violence. I feel this type of way: therefore, to stars, sipping existential monsters—at convocations, or evocations, to tears so
many words: but this is gracious; or
pure fictitious: sorting through
hidden meanings: that gracile spine; that Monet pressure; this ninety-years-young
Virgin: if but to sing, desiring sensuality, at archeries that minxes arrows:
this cold winter, fluffed in quilts, seated with burgundy sins: that velvet
summer, uprooted by dementia, at perils to laugh unknowingly: this gray goose,
that purple begonia, that seductive glare—while rifted through trance, breaking
into sky-brains, this linchpin picklock’d with vengeance: those ousted
gestures, that flushing redness, this feeling that something has been
re-colored: hereto this bizarre location, while models mourn, at flights those
outlandish seahorses—to Love with panic, as to panic with shame, while one Loves
as brains leaping at philosophies: these casual Lusts, this playful hush-hush, those wings watching as they
flap—at pure irony, to see destruction, while tugged to remedy historical
tragedies: this Shakespeare energy, that mythical Paradise, this field within
fraught with Unicorns: our crying days, pierced by [the] unexplained, where
Scrolls appear at disjointed: this vest of tyrannies, this calm ocean, that
pearl-green-sea-water. I feel this type
of way: alert to soul-nails, peering
at mellow-wood, thrust by this Kierkegaardian sword: this living through
poverties, this swanic kidnap, those daffodils too at furies for Minor
Prophets: this lake by sulfur; this cauldron by Love; this script mandating
this searching through suffering: our liberated rights, where agonies form allegiances, while,
nevertheless, we wrestle those screaming chains; indeed, to perils, this swanic
debate, where mother puffs a cigar: if but to cities, those country affairs,
while manic in Manhattan Beach: this strut down Redondo, flickering with
injustice, paved as sane but ill-gotten: that furious fire, those furious
dungeons, our hells as becoming familiar existences!
