…such
tragedy bliss, or blissful tragedy, agonizing over diamonds; this nine-year-old,
a complete psychopath, drenched in bone shed; our eyes missed, our cabbage
smushed, while trying so desperately; this need for normality, a psychotic
landscape, plus, so into something; our force in days, gripping in waves, to
bleed such flame; body glistening, laughing and pole dancing, itching for an
argument; tatted calves, tatted eyes, so fly, so content, or so radical; this
hellish storm, this blood black moon, as it drips into coffee; this fury in
pains, this bat while blain, our poison so sweet; to remember cushion, so
agonized, so deeply foolish; this stupid curse, this heartless force, while
cursed and too enlove; our years screaming, that toilet seat, those makeshift
thighs….
I wrote
a poem, it died within soil, a tree grew the next night; a dead man, whispering
pain, and eating reality; such religious realism, such oxymoron, plus, a little
satire; but, nonetheless an animal
uncaged
and daisies speak silence; this evil language, this smart amore, so cut and
laced; to take life, exchanged for death, while needing existence; filmed with
you, splayed for you, and laughing like crazy with you; at Sunset, running
towards Brentwood, while Love is life; our crooked arts so sparked and alive
where this head rose for us.
…so casual about it, so relaxed with
it, while intimidated by it; big body mansions, or small framed galaxies, at
something defending her metals; so sophisticated, so in-between, such integrity;
to give a higher life, this arguing thing, where a man has loses; cured and
tragic, blessed and blissful, while a bit torn those nights; a delicate charm,
an endless welting, while a man becomes too excited; at bridges whistling, so
high above, a planet in two….
…so magnified, incredible energy,
while talking Belizean—this map war, our sky caves, so low a second upon
contact;
redeemed
at castles, reflected in waters, too composed to fully adore; our ocean teachers,
our sands’ engines, at only one rescue per existence; our anger analysts,
filled by strangers, our whole minds tilling soils; at stop signs, occasioned to
sacrifice, as a taste never so gently; as men die, this Hellenistic fire, so
much dying in order that it may exist; our spaces falling, our inversion
insensitive, at many miles away from California.
needing
par excellence
if
but to become, in order not to lie, while Love raised our hopes; our patient
pains, our palatial pride, while pillaging performances; so, sell me stability,
or sell me ability, so long these internal fields;
as men
trying to un-freeze, as symphonies low in tone, or bass-lungs so external; our
cleaving body brains, too afar from nirvana, tripping into cycles; this
tension in gravity, as if she reneged, while screaming her devotion; those
complications, where words don’t match, and energies are phlegmatic, but our root
is iridescent concrete.
