Sweet Ambrosia: Sought as Scientific

I scream about, Naylah, this inner resonance, this killing soul-ache: our breaths, as mere humans, alive a thousand divinities: those glossy eyes, this fever in men, our abilities to behave nonchalantly: this woman’s husband, her infant swan, or this marvelous leviathan: that caged sensation, this need for comforts, those incandescent tulips: our gorilla instincts, our morning Exercises, this Gertrude flaming within this immortal swan: to cave with silence, to otter our souls, where bearlike travesties accuse of bestiality.  I love a Being, dripping through traumas, at wars our childhood mothers: this gate to minds, this gait to passions, this slight churn residing in keen observation: those psychology palms, that psychiatric membrane, those educational gaps: our chainsaws, our cedarchests, this original symphony—as losing perspective, cut for slain, at tears to enter due to complications: that island tripod, those bubbling feelings, this man so lame as sensing love.  (…at five with sugarcane, or ten with sherm leafs, floating as adrift this perfect horizon: those blatant mind-chills, those seconds by fertility, those moments of hibernation: as genetic scoundrels, pleading consensus, if by worth to cherish our names: our silky waterfalls, our frozen emotions, out thermostats as autumn brains: […our beloved, Naylah, this incredible sinner, this inner desert-tree: where Father voiceprints, or steps into roses, with curious concerns those naked dahlias]: our Pacific sun, our moonlit gazes, this mental wall: where souls forage, or frolic freely, at feelings dying by resurrection).  I admire, Naylah, this woman so afar, while seated a heart-skip northbound: this swan laughing, at intricate developments, by seasons trading in her cameras: those rebuilt engines, that antic transmission, those mantis eyes: as churning realities, while born for redemption, at turns, pleading sacrifice: those voodoo tales, this swimming cactus, that chameleon incentive: where arts are bleeding, this bone by gristle, those thought-particles and litter.  I watch, Naylah, if but by brains, kicking for trampling splinters—this archeologist, tugging at cultures, arrested by investigations: that inner scientific, that outer spiritualist, those dreams as confused: insofar, our distant bridges, this leaping concrete, our gummy attics: if but by terrors, to die so freely, this reckless force so buoyant: those cagey aggressions, this softness at random, our scalps itching by silence: as terrible souls, laughing at terribleness, but confined to this purgatorial prison: those mahogany calves, those nylon thighs, those mothlike intrusions—whereas, I need conviction, if but by Naylah, if but by resonance: this future inverted, our mirage born kisses, this fish speaking in Swahili: our Nigerian blood, or African pride, our Ethiopian brides—where primates gather, filled with phobias, communicating with caimans: those alligator eyes, that crocodile zeal, this dinosaur lineage: as men chasing, our women running, to claim with vigor this definite agony: our spinning daughters, our allergic mothers, our empirical soulprints.  I magic with, Naylah, this cave as sensing, this motive as communion: our stippled dreams, our acrylic visions, our windy bedrooms—at orangutan courage, our siblings dancing, our stepmothers volcanic: to tell Naylah’s story, or Beyoncè’s inheritance, nibbling invisible earlobes: this shift in reality, this coming into existence, our existential pragmatism: indeed, a farce, or more this curse, while peering into actual properties: that amorous soul, those amorous glances, as reaching for something that disappeared: those sakata prose, those storyline poems, this welkin sestina—while accursed for living, at charities waltzing, at life by sheer trepidation: those goosy wings, this goosy soul, those nutty eyes: if but to sing, our sons as kings, by drama our aches fleeing into concerns: those chimpanzees, our apish soul-ties, our bonobos steep by concentration.