Ice-cube Fire

We fly gently, or crawl valiantly, presumed as persons: our burning ears, our itchy palms, our guts convulsing: such rich suspicion, whittling psychopaths, confused by deep emotions: our Grand Prix feelings, that wealth of indecision, or eerily unnatural traits: those welts to brains, as repeated sensations, that sudden guffaw while sneezing: as men dying, by strategic loses, fretted by alcoholism: (those birds waltzing; that cheetah sprinting; those cobras watching)—that murmur to hearts, as fretting designs, while remaining nonpartisan.  It curries brains, this observation, while control becomes this issue: our instincts snoring, our feelings to barbwires, our intestines as purple palms: where hands bleed, nailing their crosses, by deaths to optic glens: this ontic survival, our pills for courage, while inhaling psychoses: our brains to fires, our hearts to cascades, our lessons as short by girth.  (We live tales, those allegorical daymares, our emotional beverages: this plain woman, as digging his guts, to wonder of mental attraction: this fine line, this aborted physicality, while spacial this unphysical landscape: those subtle sounds, this pitch black room, our loquacious exits: [to hate his soul, while mangling his minds, a bit too flimsy for science]: this inner mood-swing, those harmonious roses, with ankles crossed this light of deaths)…hitherto, this liquidity, this concrete water, those fidgety silkworms—at harps such laughter, as cursed by seconds, at love this color so brilliant its destination: that catbird, those blue-jays, this categorical songstress—where mother advances, this grave whistling, or ashes too far removed for closure: that inner woman, while tribal to drums, our cymbals indicating chaos: those trenchant offices, those relentless officers, that agitated vowel by such insistence—thitherto, this wrestled confidence, hacked-upon by successful souls: that martyr running, exercised by curses, frazzled that grandmother practiced voodoo: that cultic father, those telic prayers, that converted agent: if but those seconds, condemned with essence, this miracle revolting with time: those unchallenged thoughts, that intrusive psych, this thing with agitating non-compliance—as sought for comfort, this carried mirror, while rejecting individualism: that vandal’s affair, that treacherous island, those insidious attitudes: as looking different, at thoughts to freedom, where life has suffocated endeavors: those burgundy skies, our computers retracing, those interrogations by absent caveats—that beige gravel, our mental trapeze, in truth, this fragile wire: for days were cold, seated afore a furnace, fiddling racetracks: our inner railroads, that odorous cocaine, those persons advocating for dysfunction: our social abrasions, those summery pimps, those lessons as received rarely: to want with stature, those statuesque women, far by traumas but breathing.  We saw footprints, or radical blueprints, teasing this feeling by indifference: our detached souls, while sentenced to business, a tear congested by emotions: (while-ever this thing, but never this thing, adrift with panic concerning this thing): those old feelings, as cut with silence, to emerge a second seated in Chevys—that inner sigh, as groaned with violence, perceiving this unsafe adventure: that group of fledglings, those spears with torments, such mechanical allegiance: that sign to wrists, those numbers to prisons, our flesh repenting its coolness: those fiery glaciers, this jostle by souls, this jutting while jousting and living symbols: as comforted dearly, that dearth of information, to label souls insane for thinking: that rabid village, at rabbit heights, determined to kill scholasticism.