…addictive dreams and addict screams born
for survival: this elitist circle, this pearl in vodka, or years pleading
forgiveness: those inner rambles, this sick sophistication, or to touch love
but one giant: those wellic do-goods,
this traipsed agenda, and those sore cries: as mechanic meows, or strangers
vying for matrimony, to have life invested in dogma: this sickness beaming,
this feature at allegiance, where Love mingles with fantasies: this screaming
sentence, those bars that follow, or lit to gristle this marrow prophecy: where
Alaska melts, and cougars are adorable, while feuding these Maccabeus: those
trenchant sources, this glamorous moonshine, while flesh at pearls depict inner
innocence: our daughter’s throne, this castle of melodies, this melic catastrophe:
where music becomes intrusive, and pantomimes scream, as cursed this office by
advice: those years to nothing, but pure aggravation, to finally, somewhat,
repent those problems—as redeemed microphones, or casual hexagrams, where
pentacles bespeak this contestant—as confused about Love, to wonder of sheer
concern, this wellic discernment…. I live as ruined, to die as living, while
convinced about bipolar positives: this reading soul, this writing agent, while
depressed concerning this dearth of literaries: as sunbathed macaques, or
highbrow echelons, where something so gray has plagued for over a decade: while
loving excitement, to finally arrive, but afraid that too much of Love would
divide attraction: so more for distance, or psychic realities, while threshed
by physics: as pure villains, laughing and running through banks, where
reception causes this intermission: (I loved you, this inner essence, this
blotted melancholia: our jasper scars, our mental scabs, as pelt before
patience: this fraught passion, those deadly flowers, or years to behaving as
chimpanzees: our private insanities, our wild grandparents, or this pot of
chicken responses: where your cries sing, and dead for years, while blasted
this curse peering at psychs).
I drink and laugh, at pure imagination, or
psychic features: this dead moon, this world kissing grapes, or new floors a
dozen to disguises: those blank expressions, this psyched brain, those otiose
branches: this telic curse, this move to Century, or days to finger paints:
this J Crew mile, this Banana Republic success, or youths to Gaps: those
hundred dollar returns, this fitted suit, or years to sporting Versace: to
impress a cop, to flee passions, while blacks are accustomed to having nothing:
this mahogany bride, this rapacious woman, and those index rules: this Beyoncè
Empire, this cut to bones, or millions on bracelets: those berets laughing,
this fist full of mane, this throat begging for abuse—as livid a madman, to
lose his first Love, where Baby died cheating her successions: to cuss and
perish, to grip for lying, while phone conversations became a ten year hatred:
or hours two sessions, or years six hours, to exert this brand of disgusts: to
sip sorrows, or feel for goodness, while
broken this negative zeroing back to five: as bleeding men, to arrive at
sanity, insofar, as recruiting diligence.
…too driven guts, or teethe to lips, or
damage to innocence: those rewound notions, this fleet of fleeces, this feral
command—to die with penchants, or radical sloths, to emerge as something
lethal: those minutes to psychs, this meaningless aura, while a fool attempts
to impress, Lilith: as gutted and gunning, or filled with contempt, while
nibbling white chocolate: this rehearsed woman, to find senseless this life,
while communing with poltergeists: our bowels dedicated, our ruins in bold
thoughts, where literature became this sacred vex: (those pupils laughing, this
nonchalance gait, or this fool depicting a hundred persons: if but for self, as
never for me, while writing fiction: our velvet rugs, our violet attractions,
our vicious retreats: to give as life born, to something fickle, while,
nonetheless, gripping for dear mercy)….
