I
pair insanities, I listen to miracles, I chance this ramp—as lucid vehicles or
pensive machines or dance fever this reality: as casual fools, enlove for
purchases, while created as unequal(s): this campfire exhaustion, this rapture
secluded, or this woman for lights tugged by trespasses: as livid this curse,
to explode in passions, where art became this thesis: that long dissertation,
as proving its truths, while deduction became one-sighted: our graves to bones,
our women to fancies, or this whimsical elation: as mere mirrors, or citrus
casualties, to sip, perish, and feel reborn: this deep water, this cushioned
baptism, or this Cathartic Ritual: as Catholics Sprinting, this mystic magic,
to dip for diving while surviving our habits. I agonize sweetly, this rare imagination,
to venture upon this perfect damsel: those restrictive eyes, this
heavy-handed-gavel, or rites to souls worthy of this execution: those rubric
palms, our soiled mental-prints, or attraction blended with misperception:
while running through vestibules, this psych without pens, this den as
elusive—to venture as losing, this rapid fire, where deaths became normal
playwrights: if but this soul, constricted and wheezing, to feel with deaths
those rosy apologies: this heinous man, this father to hating, if but his
daughter’s potential: as cubic excitement, or exponential sorrow, while
fabulous a scar deemed as confidence: this gunning passion, this wonderful woman,
while attracted this dragon upon winter-fly wings. I fell gently, I fell ravishingly, and I
died to return to said attraction: this mental montage, this collage of
infants, or this harsh reality scraping his guts: as women sitting, if but in
deaths, to explode while courted to realities—this cagey analysis, this posit
in blood, or to postulate concerning one that hasn’t grown: this inner
misprint, this misappropriate intensity, or mirrors to ceilings while
attempting this lot by joys: our crafted acrylics, this pantomime friend, or
language spoken in palm prints: while losing life, or bethought as dead, to
cuss with excitement rising from those graves: this pregnant feeling, this wild
harvest, or this punctual sociopath: while late to life, as ruined and
laughing, where friends have mis-thought reality: that shunning voice, this
shunning miracle, where children bless parents: if but to perish, this floor so
alluring, those bones pictured in passions: our forces raging, our brains
enflamed, while Love seeps deeply those souls.
I
die in hypertension, I love as one psychotic, and I dare to channel a falling
face: this rage insanity, those Galatia thighs, or paranoid possessiveness
exploding in agonies: this rooftop tent, this inner house majesty, or tears to
sharing as needing to die: this man gunning, as said before, this aim a ten
year sentence: our brains to graves, our women to whimsy, or tears to guts
livid with miracles: those Chinese eyes, those European brains, and but to
heart that African Soul: as looking for restricted, or craving for clarity, to
delve too deeply into this stranger: our writhing guts, our casino challenges,
or those late night taquitos—where love adorns nature, this chapped lipped
sensation, where flesh seems too holy: our beating cymbals, our drumkit arcs,
if but to collapse screaming in silence: our self-conscious hearts, our asada
lullabies, while cut for structure peering into this living loser: indeed, for
guts, and, thereto, for arts, while evermore pleading Reality: this slender
built, this business mind, and this intense inferiority complex: as looking
more sharply, to wither into mayhem, this beautiful specimen as but those
numbers: to ignore courage, or to soften smiles, where Love is want for genuine
emotion: this flexible giant, those courses to souls, or lights to minds this
carpet ejection: thitherto, this crystal angular, those feeble strengths, if
but at laughing pointing at skies.
