I love
this ideal, so romantic in it, such communion by it; this travesty, so close to
roses, abandoned to adoring you; this hard hell, this glen city, this
ruminating maniac; so effused to die, so infused to live, staring too long at mirrors;
our broken delights, our delicate comforts, to look over and drop a tear; to
need full love, to desire full acceptance, while roaming an endless community;
our lights with films, our vim with patience, while ancient emotion stems a
river; so caught in us, so captured by remorse, reaming and railed, staring
into confusion. Those desperate encounters, this deliberate hex, while a dead
man knows for glory; at ails and aging, at cliffs confident in casualties, or
running followed by cognitive dissonance; if but those years, as young and
vibrant, to imagine with time this cheerleading congratulations; our arrythmias,
our sudden firecrackers, to adore something too aloof to capture; such
illustrations, such illusions, so ill and forgiven—thrust into gardens, forced
to prune feelings, while something zin is transpiring; those kleptic
advantages, to rob an innocent soul, where one possessed good intentions; our
congestion, our confabulation, our congruous delusions; as impatient creatures,
running for freedoms, with hounds so obedient; a fatal scar, a field of cotton,
plus, a white fairer queen; such dissonance, such inadequate love, while
Passion brought ointment for the wounds; chasing ideas, longing for freedom,
within a Douglass environment; so contagious, Love, our daughter wars, Love,
while afraid to love as Juliet; this fairer fool, this dynamite luxury, so
captive inside; at years with glory, at secrets so cultic, while pantomimes
melted sunrise; our arcs, Psych, our dreams, Mystic, this fretted ink-battle,
Husbands; our delectable sorrows, our needed tragedies, our favored miseries;
to tell a secret, to die a rose, to believe despite this rung; such fair
science, such incredible religiosity, to gleam, but a seam, or a radiant clenching
scream!
It requires
craft, this raft of science, this rust and gust and fusing; to need one this
moment, to drop a tear, realizing I’ll come through but more isolated; this
dependent self, this independent perusal, while ruse and gut and rut and star;
abrasive realities, conjured from afar, while madness becomes a certain
category; our thoughts in ink, our blinking bottles, to come so close to
evading closets; this truth, this goose, this golden library; where love is
groves, and pain is ingrained, and nouns are so important; this irksome habit,
this rabbit interior, while Bugs seemed quite arrogant; this Daffy life, so
pure an incentive, while condemned to miss this landmark; at tears those days,
so lost those graves, at slaves in me, at silence in me, at sailing for me—to drift
or drown, to die or detach, while survival comes with losing something vital;
this idle self, as but a title, flippant with such disgusts; looking like lost,
gangly those grounds gunning, or penchant a pail of pain.
I sought
a hermit, to rescue this albatross, for I killed something holy; I loved like
crazy, I amazed for a short time, and I got lost in a dream; our needs scraping
gravel, our comely forms, our arms so heavy; letters spelling issues, tissue
splayed in membranes, our courage waning heavily; so removed by you, so
innocent in you, at forks in terrors by cognition; such travesty, such tragedy,
while comedy becomes terrific silence; this dying in me, this love in me, to
divorce everything she couldn’t teach me; this wild running, this rustic ideal,
while railing against human treachery; to relive in us, to rustle in us, to bustle
in dust, to trust while cleaving to something protecting egos; this dead soul,
repenting for father, while mother is singing; so drenched, so dreaded, and so
dreary; this formality, this foregoing, while framed in fragments and feelings;
our guts giggling, our minds rushing, where it feels good to forget with life;
searching for one cacophony, but listed as an intruder, while Love saturates a
particular vignette!
