Monday, September 24, 2018

Interlude: Horizons


…such credence by feelings, those incredible journals, and such remarkable remnants: this need for simplicity, if but to receive essence, or realities over-processed…to comb through emotion, to sense adoration, to alight from jaded haystacks: those outstanding capsules, that outlandish thought, whereby, romance has become reception: that basket of memories, those bold overtures, or unwavering companionship…as precious authors, or rapacious knitters, where acid rain never tasted so moving: this blanket of promises, that endearing squirrel, and antlike prickles: to exhaust sunrise, to crocket evenings, or to dine through midnight: those colorful passions, those late night cartons—what miracles may bloom…!

…in evidence we moan, about seahorse horizons, about the motions of life: these gild of seekers, this love by imagery, or souls webbed and feeling excited: our casual glances, those leaves piling, our dreams rushing water—if but to arise, as felt in emotion, to arouse something permanently abstract: this heat with courage, this thrown dynasty, or daylight reminding itself—of something delicate, of something intrusive, or memories too powerful to dislodge: as musical instruments, or galloping spirits, while consumed by something mentioned: such innocent role-play, such stages for lights, or looking for absence while adoring footprints: our grooming habits, our souls alike to primates, or our need for something living: at huts dancing, at trails nervous, at cliffs pleading to leap: indeed, where courage blossoms, or love advertises, or eyes sing mercy….     

…these winds are latent, these tumbles are violent, and this feeling is reeling: as dear friends, or absorbed lovers, as building an encouraging ark: this castle of rings, this space for furniture, or those witted explosions: this feeling examined, this emotion examined, to realize an inconclusive analysis—or rendered without knowledge, to adore something flying, as to soar enveloped in precise sensations: this feeling-memory, as stressed for pegs, while Love is leaping...!              

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...