I
pace roughly, while sipping black syrup, a tad bit confused: this cryptic
abuse, this bleeding culture, this sap with juice: those blazing cigars, this
kitchen by smaze, this adventure towards Netherlands: our Australian cousins,
our African uncles, our European blood streams: this wellic feeling, this mutual disdain, this inner cabinet: to unleash
ghosts, this goblin affair, this pier by memoirs: our fitted suits, this color
as shifting, this colorless as dominant: our bold brides, this woman we adore,
our ski-lodge feuds: if but by panic, to announce as losing, this drilling sensation: those white shields,
those brown diamonds, this yellow horizon: while partly psycho, or terrified by
mirrors, or petrified of self: this feminine monster, this gentle skycraft,
this allergic aphrodisiac. I cut with
time, redeeming violence, while torn this lose of time: our gradual insights,
our beaming wits, where life sends its curve: this alien ball, this inking bat,
this melting glove: as young souls, stressed by ghetto rites, or redeemed but
dearly unlatched: this fading linchpin, this screw unwinding, those pegs trampled
under silence: this remarkable feeling, this trenchant curse, this web latching
upon hearts. I remember its onslaught,
this season for gifts, this horrific feel-good: our lively parents, this shift
in moods, this terrific dinner: that Galatians Alphabet, our nights enthralled,
our doors proving this Ghost: (this living catastrophe, this feel-good
destroyer, those years to treading pavements): this trick-or-treat, this treat
be-good, this trick for goods: our Sahara Atmospheres, this stuffy stench,
those grimy otters: if but our curse, this fair dilemma, those cross-county
cranberries: our explosive fights, this tale with chimes, this tale with
clauses—those romantic promises, this perfect life, this designated difference. *We perish with life, We die our
resurrections, We count our twigs: this style by cultures, such unyielding
sophistication, to become alarmed where we sense its absence: this essence by
empires, this legacy by ghetto rites, this séance supporting mental keenness—our
days to fantasies, this steep admiration, or so subtle it appears before intimation:
our winded souls, our adverse scars, or this pledge to distress potential
vibrancies: as men guzzling, while seated at hearts, to dine upon God’s
arteries: this vacant puzzle, this holy sickness, or this reasoning through
denial: our aches and bridges, our inner appetites, or this design troubling
longevity: this waking curse, this void through dungeons, to grip for life this
outer parachute.* I sat at renaissance,
aging but a young lad, while nursing mother back to consciousness: this thing
with life, as hidden from reality, while children witness our indiscretions:
those bold lies, that lying mirror, that ignorant doctor: to speak of lungs, or
to suggest purities, while arguing us concerning our livers: that foolish soul,
this foolish world, that foolish heart-murmur: at cliffs pleading, if but to
leap—our children gripping our ankles: this wealth by dysfunction, this abused
child, where innocence becomes hardened replies: to seek for normality, where
children become adults, to then upon this super relationship: our dear
indoctrination, our bull-shark mentalities, our essence seeping into usage:
those bold barks, that ripened root, that steep suggestion. I hear life, this sheer abandon, or this
defensive personality: where secrets are held tightly, while intrusion
spears-forth this lashing, indeed, even this retaliatory disposition: this
thing with shame, as pulled towards its aversion, while feeling sickened by
pursued interaction: our dreams with scars, our visions with doubts, or our
lives cornered by goblins: those treasured allies, or abusive agents, where
souls search for slumber: those tarsier eyes, this fidgety nature, or this
calming friend giving more: while souls mock, watching our destruction, as
grinding hell to keep their distance: this coarse reality, our souls
devastated, our grandparents mourning.
