Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Banshee Ravines


…life becomes pleasantries, or tortured roses, this gate of freedoms: our mantis daisies, searching for clarities, or abandoned to storms: this relentless clock, this grandfather cigar, while smoke cleaves to ceilings: our watchful crossing-guards, our insightful archeologists, well into our ancient-futures: this bridge of ghosts, this likeness to sin, such atypical forgiveness: our tragic trespasses, viewed with distance, even appraised with nonchalance: this existential wind, this epistemology rapture, or this uneasy understanding about reality: that suede armor, that vinyl helmet, or those philosophic breastplates: while desiring perfection, but tugged by caimans, to imagine that our primates stress over transgression….  I recite memories, seated in hostility, a bit curious concerning mindstates: this orange horizon, this black-knight phantom, or this clear light image: as pure awesomeness, those trembling bones, as closeness to something spectacular: our brains as creatures, or psychosomatic wind-benders, where essence churns perceptions.  Years seep into wilderness, where people drift through prisms, while behavior is often imperfect: our beauty leaking, where it felt for extravagance, while behaviors weigh upon conscience landmines: (upon a petal releasing, upon a dream capturing, where life knits its portrait: this self-imagery, faced by such impassivity, where a gentle gaze is plundered): this harsh reply, as perceived as unsteady, where conscious souls forfeit that adventure.     I thought to mudslides, this curious mind-train, as two that loved invert to hate: to carry such distress, while entering liaisons, where baggage and luggage and turbulence lingers in our shadows: to hope for newness, at practice such young beliefs, while angered at yet another soul: this cliff behavior, where responsibility is false reality, while embarking upon our latest adventure: but hell to reality, if but to have that moment, while plenty of fish are willing to use us: such carnival nightmares, this sea of endless wheels, plus, this gravitational tug: our likeness before us, our charms speaking riddles, our nature at love our extended selves: this replica of mirrors, as thinking just alike, while forgetting that we lack this insistent morality: to do as pleases instincts, while needing something impervious, where decent souls have pledged their existence: (this adorable lemur, those adorable mating birds, or this incredible Ethicist: those precise perfections, those longstanding confessions, or this endless wave of creativity: those prestigious parents, those alumni friends, or more, this insatiable craving for romance and appropriate responses: or better, that seed by ghettoes, thrust into reality, where strife molded this academic magician: such stealth by struggle, such wealth by courage, to stress with vital vehemence): our dreamy souls, our inner dreamcatchers, our metaphysical realities.     We’re moons afar, this space in China, our British Africans: this integration of souls; this distressed easiness; this need for something that wars at life: this grain of passion, this well of indignation, this inner agitation: our souls churning, modified by simplicity, where complexities are illustrated: this lens through perceptions, our shared views, our synchronicity: those welted and welded words, those rinsed and wet promises, or this ability to trust while receiving felicity: those rubric chess-pieces, this appeasing tetras design, or more this life that enchanting soul: to mayfly our swamps, to American Red Cross our storms, or better, to live according to idealistic principles: to have those loses, while changed for good, or becoming this rectitude creature: for hurt realizes intensity, where anger inverts innocence, while a trained soul refuses to practice thefts: this encrypted garden, this maze of screams, or this remarkable simplicity: our chase through literature, our philosophic well-prints, as aspiring human beings: this practical concern, this theoretical concern, or this theological art-frame: to love while distant, to aid while extracted, to dance where pain is widespread.                  

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...