Let tragedy
be gentle, racing and raging and rescuing solace; as screams travel dreams and
memes gather for lunch; our sacral daughters, our battling tides, at estuaries
and ritual and pride; to arise Sunday yawning, to church as fire, to re-camp
our sensories; as confused by love, while standing love, so cursed to presume
love; confiscated from blight, given to plight, sweltering by measurements; so
casual but actual, so manual as animals, and dearly dramatical; those droplets
and inlets those reigns and losing control; our daughters at wingspan, our sons
untangled and ramped, our poets most unsteady; this middle horizon, this space
with divinity, as possessed and dispossessed; or there so here where days are
care and swears are answered with tears; as ugly behavior, or enticing flavors,
at triumph, trumpets and clumps of soil; our beautiful Swan, our equality in
yarn, at rainbow leprechauns; such dreary bliss, such rich dismissal, where we
caress those few hours—our spider-dreams, our love for this curse, while admiring
better realities.
I raked
a garden, plucking mortals, and fertilizing morals; our tragic cast, our white
cat, or better, our socializing catnip; listening to whiny pups, or shooing a
trespassing cricket, or pondering a majestic grasshopper; those few memories,
moving apace, so quickly time was outwitted; our battles with youth, our flings
with knowledge, while focused on stage characters; so removed, our huffs in
grooves, our rare wrangling costumes; but we watch gently, at traits we mustn’t
become, assuredly downcast; for love is eloquent, and love has names, plus, love
is so coquettish; those magazine eyes, this aisle of favors, those gangway
ideals; to dress with forethought, to sit with grace, and so intimate with
garments.
We care
but anger, adrift a clouded milieu, listening to catastrophic parlance; so
draped as actors, or becoming science, where we carry an intuitive chill; or
looking at tragedy, admiring characters, as stage life is better than actual
realities; those debonair souls, those chaste souls, and our languishing calls
towards remapping; moved to exist, applied to contemporary bliss, while
estranged from everything we commit; those longer eyelashes, our better waves,
or suspecting a hand in our pudding; this wrangling interior, while cleaving to
sanity, those burning and smoldering logs; such infant dogma, older with
sockets, while hearing a strong echo; listening to gravesites, or pondering
ashes, while unsaid ashes are possibly at sea.
It was
pure celebrity, those frozen flowers, or this table filled with dying petals;
twigs and stems, gems and aglets, our shrubberies so bare this autumn; it was
weaving our guts, going for wretched, to finally realize a certain cadence with
pain; to see it manifest, to witness those returns, while one door is padlocked
another opens with screams; our fairer antipathies, our graces in droves, or
our propellers geared by darker nights; as curious to see us, this stage
redressed, or this feeling where voices are sung; those cauldrons, those
closing curtains, or this opening scene; while lost to this, those experiences,
as never a second on Broadway; for less those cries, for less those dying
ferns, for less this table of cringing gnomes.
Such
redeeming circumstance, to see warriors in us, while watching our wilderness;
captured in capes, at capital signs, so signaled, so tensed, so terse; our
laconic skies, but a second with membrance, so often ignored; our tragic bliss,
our poisonous joys, at terrible rejoicings—our Psalms as witness; so influenced, so
boundless, at horrific excitement; indeed, such softer metal, such brick water,
such naturally sewn agonies.
