…something incorrigible, those
wandering cries, so angular, so rectangular, at foreign escapes: those Portugal
eyes, those African lips, or such Italian ecstasy: as a dreaming machine, so
frantic our lies, so indebted our harbingers: at something spacial, our souls
about cosmos, where fire leaps, ignites, and radiates for hours: those power
legs, embedded within a sullen heart, fleeing but captured, or captured but
presiding: if but an antidote, if but freedom, while life is enslaved by
ecstasy: dripping steam, hot, moist texture, so abandoned, so at home: our
wavering arcs, those insipid promises, but so felt, so dedicated when spoken:
our aging wisdom, our Solomon minds, our Bathsheba sin: as men feuding, so
close our circles, but Love and I had a brutal discussion: such rabid madness,
in this league of souls, while Love is naked….
…indebted to circumstance, ignoring
an interior compass, a bit temperamental about morals: our childlike antennas,
so impetuous, so desired for ignorance: those deeper hunches, crocheted with
crime, a bit irritated by those naked mirrors: mental bullfights, outlandish appetites,
so gifted, so mature, but so alluring: this marvelous curse, this metaphysical
movie, or this portrait for Neutrogena: as aborted survivors, crawling through
sands, nearing something incredibly insane….
It lives gruesomely, and dies
horribly, at wretched terror: as others disappearing, even those vying, while
one stands upon our totem: this lovely dejection, this pyramid raciness, so
evidential, so cryptic, at cultic exhaustion: an oceanic desert, debated in
cultures, where a man turns to something loathed: this purported mischief,
those purported preaching(s), while one is labeled as protesting too much: looking
at something intimidating, catching a glimpse by configuration, while carrying
on, nonetheless: polite banter, cozy remarks, even slight attitudes: as nothing
quickly measured, while one is faintly measured, up and until, Love pops an
infuriating ego: that flimsy gong, those flimsy thoughts, where, in actuality,
Love is pressing for something more overt: a dying declaration, but men are
impassive, while many are sure to protect imageries: this maniac fool, this
lover of souls, this crazed Casanova: breaking through walls, risking life and
spirit, if but one tryst with Incredible: for women are creators, living in
deeper feelings, while needing adventure, life, and death: our manikin
attraction, so neatly tucked, where months become quite irritating: too much
thought of self, men must confess quickly, else, one is seen as a bit unsteady:
this conundrum in chimes, this treacherous mistake, where love desires a need
for resistance: those complicated creatures, those familiar creatures, while
chess becomes a board for seduction.
…a few are close, this natural
contemplation, this feudal interior: studying actions, of one too distant,
where a chasm is screaming: it effects thoughts, it leads feelings, while, in
reality, two are barely at meditation: those fierce persons, at fiercer
electricity, while one has signed off: so observant in hindsight, so intricate
at plain battles, while some gestures shouldn’t be analyzed: this impetuous
space, or this thought about quality, where a man feels he never had a first
appearance: at frantic cries, realized in something gentle, while some women
pick and pluck and insulate self: an inseam, a thread knitted, a bolt
tightened: while one is foolish, as confessing his need, while Love pretends
not to fathom: in truth, a treacherous game, more so, a devious deed, where one
must determine an action: such crying embarrassment, such crippling reluctance,
where Love might say something: so green we live, so cautious we dance, while
something too sure seems too genuine: indeed, this great riddle, needing
surety, but longing for danger: it seems gray, it removes our sensibilities,
while some women are pure seductresses….
