Tuesday, March 6, 2018

Brain Carnage

I spark a cigar, reading models, this gravid paradigm (those morbid channels, this gorilla fox, this Max Mara): as men craving, listening through graves, excited over extinct literature (those burning books, this partial page, our days at ingratiation): that soiled castle, that remote horizon, those precious cries—as lives our cultures, at mutilated genetics, at partial neurons: this scope by dreams, that wiggly butterfly, that super-sized roach: our cabinets bleeding, our mothers to headlamps, our knuckles to footlights (this model dreaming, this harlot at remorse, this curse as pursuing religiosities)—that strange feeling, that strange beauty, our reckless imaginations.  I nibble a prune, drifting through bowels, while rinsing diamonds: this fact at life, our murky mayflies, our relished swamps (as men reciting, or women at theater, reading this Italian play): that deep reception, as cried our arcs, where love destined a calling fatality—those wings wheezing, our rabid flapping(s), that eagle by kilometers: our British knowledge, our British women, that African American Europe—as dead beadles, or living lady bugs, either/or, this steep resentment: for youth is winning, while consensus is guiding, as age becomes this requirement.  I woke at cadence, to meet as disgruntle, staring at chiseled thighs: this made vixen, this Valentino model, those inner hieroglyphics (as men dying, while existent a curse, at births laughing with false excitement)—this mental slant, this relished rehearsal, those nine hours at studies: if but that test, to confess our genius, as opposed to this variance by approvals: our extraordinaire women, our debonair poets, that scientific countenance—as forever reaching, damn near asunder, pushing through psychotic dimensions (to awaken in Xanadu, fiddling an albatross, to awaken filled with rage)—that silent theft, our silent breaths, this silent miracle—as but a glimpse, our L’Oreal third eye, our ecclesiastic eyelashes.  We live as movers, rummaging spacial dusts, hand-painting dusky skies: our deeper twilights, this remarkable rose, our rays pining over swamps: this monster at tears, that sky-gavel crashing, and that attempt at inner compunction (thereto, this steep dimension, this radical rake, our sickles too dull for intuition): where dingo(s) gather, those electric brain particles, this jolt at sudden a thought: or more esoteric, a thought to heartbeats, where volts soon follow…to disappear, livid this hologram, gripping for dying at love with such desperation (our childhood aches, our palatial spheres, at ages becoming quite mechanical): our internet Paris, those bedroom islands, our souls cleaving for mercy: our restless minds, our B.C. enchantments, our A.D. enthrallments: as a puppy barks, cuddled by an infant—our eyes glossy (as memories swarm, our armor melting, a bit eerie, that sudden frustration): this essence watching, our inner computer typing, our hearts graded. 

[…some love as lost, I regret such souls, spacing through wetlands: to cringe intensities, pulled at mirrors, at love, feeling inadequate: this constant reaching, this tug at canyons, that leap he couldn’t take: for something lives, at necks our souls, while easily yanked: this need for warmth, this need for adoration, this hunger for centered stages: our caps with gowns, our mental tenure, our remarkable bodies: this threshing for thrashing, this intellectual deliberation, this angst tarnished by excitement: our gut-phones, this gutty ache, those rabid sentences: if agony comes, so lives this soul, attending to heart-flesh wounds: those gray cups, as series half-full, while feeling radically empty: to fly with prose, but hindered this light, where a second shifts deliberation: this want for ecstasies, this arch for horizons, this vestibule of existential doors: those wellic charms, that partial resentment, where sexual tension abides in all relations: our knowledge cursing us, our wisdom liberating us, our understandings as umbrellas by sorrows: as lives this dance, this inner ballet, this epistemological cadenza].

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...