…such
pure effects, such bubbly trance, those rosy white petals: to soar gently, over
sores and fungi, while racy and disrupted: our shivering hearts, our threshed
souls, so demented and ugly: at Life’s Events, such pure wine, such dying
upheavals: (we knew kef, we invited poison, we seemed surprised: such blue
deaths, such capricious emotion, as never this exhilarating): those gray
anvils, this galloping distraction, while running so fast: those ghosts so
forceful, our eyes so smoky, eating too much to chew: our minds, with such
concern, listening to outer static: if but to adore, if but Sunday choir, if
but this simplistic approach: either this way or that way or we don’t exist:
(this lightning curse, at deep marvels, debating our inheritance): those
foolish rules, controlling our masses, while we cut corners: such governed
pain, oblivious to our puppeteer, and deaf to salutations for puppets: such
deep sorrow, to watch us dying, to feel so removed: this pot of mystery, this
mystic discomfort, or pure cultic exhaustion: our gunning adventures, our
tormented souls, at clarity and medieval rapture: such darkness, such religious
domination, such art, music, and damnation: if but with heaven, this wrench
grappling, those pliers wrangling: at chimpanzees, communicating existence, to
meet with such absence: our blatant excuses, those few charmers, at terror and
pride and more terror: invested in memories, cursed and discounted, while many
are suffering that first bungee: as seeping into lights, afforded three wishes,
while multiplying this one expression….
I
entered suspicion, this inevitable journey, so foolish to perish: those
laughing pleats, our re-polished tables, our neighbor’s feeling empathy: this
crazed happenstance, those numerous visitors, our needs for personal space: but
life is mystic, this arc of velvet rose, this clanging while restless: our
devilish flirtations, our under-studied beings,
where agony convinces its story: this timely argument, inverting our
terrors, while thrust for damaged speaking gates: such blueberry magic, such
raspberry wands, at something more an undercurrent.
…to
adore such resonance, to chime is perspective, as one alive but hidden from
reflection: such cryptic stitching, such cultic literature, at something too
far to receive: this interior fire, this upholstery landscape, or eyes so steep
we look to sky-elves: at tyranny and skill, at drillings and castles, at flame
and universes: those troubled aches, this English Heart, our particular wires:
at souls engraved, into something with stars, to tug at outer-spaces: such
psychic energies, such flaming ghosts, to evaporate gently into beige matter….
