…ambiguous
senses, tired realities, so spacial, so concerned, peering through our kitchen:
so vivacious, pure delirium, at treasures and violence and Capital resentments:
so elevated, so dirty, while beauty exudes through curtains: so sad, as deeply
touched, where private behaviors are shared: our public audience, our terror
cries, while remorse paints its series:
I’ve adored Ms.
Invisible, so captive to a dream, while negotiating with delusions: I’ve been
sick this life, gazing into ebony features, a bit amazed by how people grow:
unconscious behaviors, our conscious minds ignored, while cringing and vomiting
and indebted: alabaster candles, interior molasses, such syrup and stain and
satin: those lips, those thighs, those crevices: a man’s ruins, a curse on our
charms, where imprisonment builds into disgusts: while something afar, is so
detectable, so lascivious, and so hidden: to unveil Virginity, to endure rubber-bands,
so cautious, so calm, so calculated: to rebuild an ego, to reestablish pride,
while wrung for resisting chimes: our deadly appetites, our caution to winds,
our tinges brink’n upon fringes: those tired gestures, so long at revival, so
torn by manuscripts: such a reader, such a seamstress, such tress and tragedy
and trauma: to perdure with passion, to long while knitting, at something
seemingly impossible: those lengthy limbs, those oval shaped calves, those
albatross eyes: to die in us, to rejuvenate by illusion, to hold for dear
lights: our casual encounters, this witness-desk, those official end-scars:
such war those grays, such suspension our aches, while living to die this shrill.
I
have a feeling, something eating me, something fragile: to imagine probability,
to have something complete, with such an incomplete spirit: those creative
palms, those shimmering crystals, as alive only in this specimen: so captured,
so engrossed, so transmigrated: our spiritual alarms, our naked
susceptibleness, our gravity in winds dangling with fireflies: at perfect
loses, or perfect winnings, to create something in essence a few months: that
complete feeling, those complete grins, while fanning and winnowing pure
contenders: ever to need us, when others complete us, as if having creates an
atypical beauty: too aesthetic, too rich, where bodies fit in cement: buried in
skies, such upward fallings, to skip, tiptoe, and become this man’s woman: (I
have an inkling, this inking empire, so reversed into antiquity: our fairer
imaginings, while most are ill-equipped, but something desires that feeling:
those raging pomegranates, those fruitless peaches, to have something so
marvelous): our dying years, our unconditional(s), as others are plain
stupefied: where to accept, but never forgive, to look upon life while losing
essence: those fragile chandeliers, this interior cadenza, sick for polluted
reasoning through something natural.
…something
so gray, to look at you curtly, to sense something so delicate: while a monster
stirs, a demon cries, so executed and explosive: a bigger goddess, a lenient
miracle, so gripped, so revised, such a refined human: to imagine dying, to
love and adore dying, while at life this tender touch: those rubber lies, as
bouncing back, to confess where we need freedom: such wrangling preciousness,
such purposed pleasures, to need something forgiving: so inclined to accommodate, so sick to love, so adored for
enduring: as never to shun, or to turn his back, on such a remote
perfection: our scriptures, our glow, while to come to something devastating:
this feeling with pegs, this inclusive everything-ness, or those tired,
introspective, and tenuous regrets: too pleased in you, to die so heaven in
you, while a friend throughout Eternity in you….
