…an
old slave homage, a new land in souls, as fueled speaking quasi-truths: our
waveform’d behaviors, so sick with substance, and too brave to apologize: our
whiny protests, our elixir with memories, or this flame arising and
disappearing: a woman’s spark, at fire-glaciers, or deep emotion-ice: to love
and panic, to become something imagined, at rare courses with souls: our mind-sharks,
so incredibly at ease, or seconds before rage: to ask pertinent responses,
looking at something languishing, that soft voice, so absent and cruel: those
raspy lungs, this semi-sobriety, as one yells at absurdity: indeed, so close it
aches, so afar it reaches, and so cursed it feels normal: those quick reads
extracting insecurities, while certain to ignore falderal: those tandem eyes,
those workshop calves, or just for admiration: this internal mailbox, flowing
with letters, as time manicures interior portraits: so close we see, so
enthralled we vanish, so disillusioned we gnaw debris: this gain in tales, this
piano-typewriter, or this chilly guitar: where anguish was polite, as not to
rob us, of every violin of dignity: those remorseful grins, those crackling
cheeks, if but one first dance: our falling faces, our radical scars, where
father pimped harder….
I’d
review pain, as something intimate, sudden a fixture at gray eyes: I’d maintain
tact, looking at something simple, afraid to imagine attraction: I’d flicker
switches, and turn fire low, while watching thermometers: this radiant torch,
this iron for pressing, those dresses adorning imperfection: our partial
pictures, those pantomime voices, while lost at cultural holds: this interior
go-to, to fail our humanity, while sipping certitude: this chase in humans, our
best consensus, our cathartic numbness: as souls with insects, or crickets with
fevers, this country of old souls: so roundabout, to suggest attraction, while
it’s difficult to review: this bucket of dice, this palm of trumps, or
jumping-jacks seeming immortal: this land of gadflies, this horse and goad, or
this gnat and cup: to rebuild admiration, to capture a subtle goodbye, or to
reknit a casual dismissal: our blue, hazel, green eyes, our terrific greetings,
or noises spelling our contention: as mere bodies, or flowering intuition,
afforded one chance at feeling goodness.
…embolden
print; or italic emotion; looking at pure sexuality: to erase his thoughts, to
regroup, at appearances casting doubts: our failed eye-capture, our promised
discontent, at something a lantern beneath a table: while mother nudges, and
father is reserved, and cousin sips a glass of orange juice: our tears
disguised, our faces glowing, at something more indelicate than it appears:
this slurring numbness, this sober horizon, our trombones serenading our
saxophones: to reappear, while taking courage, inside this dungeon of
strangers: our flowers stuttering, or ceilings unveiling, at thoughts
concerning this grand inspirer: our achy legs, exercised in silence,
accompanied by pressured breathing: our music aloof, our words failing
departure, our loins tingling with anticipation: this milky feeling, our clammy
palms, our moist knuckles: at something irregular, where attraction bares it
rules, and affection shouldn’t roam wildly….
I
imagine lemurs, at a pint of gin, followed by pure insanity: I imagine
satiation, but mental by terms, where persons fail to search further: those
saga-sages, laughing about reality, filmed internally: at every gesture, to
capture intentionality, to rehearse clarity: our screams as souls, such
sensitive activities, afforded one interior gaze: our sour apples, accompanied
by sweeter grapes, while doubting just enough for deeper love: such fire and
water, such dreams in vogue, while warding off this land of pursuers: as women
blossom, we notice perfections, we become enamored: this sky of candles, those
charms with meaning, our souls fishing armor.
