Wednesday, August 1, 2018

I Felt Us behind Doors


I give leniency, despite spirits, for I love and adore such majesty: our sporadic highs, our canine lows, or spinach with rice: this fair woman, these wrestling weights, or tamed for dearly ruined: our mothers banished, our fathers as absentees, or bowels bleeding honey: to curse Jesus, or to perish Yahweh, while enounced by Ghosts: this rugged edge, this jagged Prince, our hours to studying Machiavelli—to rebirth fires, our malignant cousins, while holy a knot pitted in guts: those inner moons, this reptile Princess, at beauty to revoke insecurities: our baths with venom, our hind-leg lizards, or years to feeling dislodged—as grains scream, where harvest disappeared, while granny reinvested destructions: this faithful leach, or this breach in humans, to arrive as one cut with silence: (this pregnant soul, abandoned to sexual cues, while maintaining her home: this fool for skin tone, those mental microphones, while one laughs falling for distressed).     I felt oxygen, I laughed upon helium, and God knew our names: this fragmented giant, this dying lieutenant, or eye-to-soul this satanic agenda: as deadly habits, abased for cursed, where mother sits in this office—as granny rebukes, where our son revolts, insofar, this message bleeding its calligraphy: those mannish feelings, this mannish psych, or one too attuned to claim reality: our hypnoses, our Chardonnay, and this tiny, lucid, inquisitive genius—where grandpa was absent, this non-participant, but present in brains those heinous activities: at Blue Crosses, or Turquoise Skies, to invest deaths while resurrecting existence: those candles flickering, those mystics juggling, or more to angst, his sanity up for evaluation: this flying swan, this friendly albatross, or this pheasant speaking Japanese: indeed, to flights, this NY mentality, where two are flourishing, while realities are damaging lights: those feudal Masons, this return to life, as one contemplates Lucifer’s Location: as wild agents, leaping through pharmacies, at sixty five days through darkness: our frozen minds, this frozen tear, to invest in planting emotion: this running soul, this beaming woman, those reckless charms: at arms and rings, at songs and signs, to give illusion while forming delusion: that old caliber, this new calendar, or this pregnant year forfeiting its insanities: to sip and laugh, while filled with problems, to confess as belonging to Chaos: this tundra soul, this Grecian ache, or tears through Rome congregating: this Goddess figure, this moist drumkit, where tomorrow has decided at deaths: this tuna with mayonnaise, this egg with onions, this onion with green trimmings: to die as living, or to roam as livid, our years to this savannah: if but to deliver, this intimate baptism, while changed by pure emotionality: those days at fertility, our chainsawing oceans, or dreams confused by perceptions: where feelings are bears, at grand dismissals, while dead at silence puking into realities.
    
I’m low and moving, this jab through traffic, this Atlantic mushroom: to watch as furious, this pearl machine, this European Sun: our souls clashing, our moons bashful, where such becomes endearing: this patient loser, this ferocious winner, our seconds to feeling goodness at casinos: those bald eagles, this tall Amazon, where men try harder to exhaust sperm: as madmen, or mad-gin, those eyes telling this perception: as broken this laugh, this chase with 2pac, or this undertone found in Scarface: to cuss by nature, too tamed and aloof, where souls judge just about everything: our guts ruined, our cries invaded, where mother would die afore forfeiting her son: this bleeding rope, this cavy angst, or pure anxiety: this fretted sofa, this demented man, where close examination points to false beliefs: as gunning perfections, to feel sorts but special, while fiddling through illegal money: those rusty hearts, asearch for clearance, while too bogged down to cultivate Jesus: those black begonias, those liquid almonds, or flour to pure for pork chops: as God running, while leaping scriptures, to slow pace abashed by insistence.               

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...