I
was sickly, loosened by associates, as one captive: this field by aches, this
love by wells, at Rebecca this thief: our tears, our agonies, our sunshine: at
cryptic dances, at decoded caves, us paleontologists: such architecture, such
architects, to rebuild Jesus: our grannies, this flower of passions, our
granddads playing kickball: our souls hung, our deep infatuations, our
communicative concentration: at psychs with pains, at love with hearts, reading
into emojis: our radicalized anguish, this fretting orgasm, those tender,
rubescent mind-prints: if but orchestras, if but symphonies, if but those
tragic gray skies: our philosophic, our metaphysic, our epistemic: our stoic
rites, our protagonists’ hearts, our Poseidon souls—at deep blue seas, or
captivated young arts, to envelope something drastic: (at travesty exhausted,
at lonely ears, at pomegranates and shivering clouds: this spacial gust, those
hectic winds, to sit at raindrops: our cursed aggression, our living aggression,
while love called it passion: this flight magic, those inner leprechauns, as
needing me-gold: our radical lies,
our reserved souls, our daughters feasting upon grayness: such panic to dance,
such arts to ruins, while skies wear binoculars: at threat and haven, at
landmine and woman, thrust into something so hectic: to dine with Christ, this
interior vest, with mystic telephones): this avenue city, those in-wells, where
Love sought playwrights.
…we
found something, this rite to progeny, this curse this blessing: as rinsed
souls, planted in soil, walking into orchards: those violet orchids, this mauve
soul, those velvety petals: at rules by love, at monogamy ships, or rescued for
abandoned: at entitlements, our last dime, our first funeral: this blade
blazing, this land crumbling, this ideal waning: as men to earth, as earth to
soul, seated near lemur eyes: this present essence, those lovely arcs, while so
far and so close—this torn cliché, this torn passion, those recital mirrors: to
sing in soprano, to mask with ecstasy, as souls so clutched for panicked: our
last angst, our first pressures, at measures to erase those utensils: (those
icons, those media damsels, or so lost reality lives in boxes: such mascara,
such pitch black eyeliner, while too distracted to capture eternity: at a
pleasant flower-dress, or relaxing disposition, ordained as one with
perfection: indeed; but thoughts are sentimental, and Love is grand, and pain
is leaking: to see poetry, while another sees anguish, where another shrugs
shoulders: this place for few, this number as demented, our algebra as
grammatical: such analyses, this numeric index, while totality speaks to
something abstract: (that inner fusion, this red window, those strobe lights):
as men gunning, if but for experience, to find Love imperceptible): so
daunting, so attractive, and so ensconced…!
I
drift, Swan, thinking about love, a sick and social wreck: an idyllic man,
those deep regions, to awaken pure jealousy: our women as machines, taking
romantic inclination, as persistent coquets: such African/Asian love, such
European passion, at Belizean damsels: or here in Fort knocks, rocking
mentally, at Love speaking softly: that endless banter, those serious seconds,
our deep silence: to need this feeling, while souls are waning, where
opportunity rages forth: our torn reality, our knitted seas, our redeemed
skies: where passion is gray, or passion is detrimental, where one desires near desolation: this scarred space,
those tender limbs, our desires outweighing our insistence: those wine
headaches, those tender thumps, this travel kit communion: if but to sanity, if
but to realization, if but a bit deeper than sex: this space for souls, this
clock for women, at granny a bit reminiscent: to lose memories, to regain artificial
science, while running into deserted valleys: this sphinx with brains, this
ambivalent go-between, at cadence and
song, fevered and baptized!
