we exist in bubbles where
flowers sprout beliefs and gardens echo sentiments; our cruel sacrifices at something
giving pure beauty while a poet contradicts life. at half a skull or tormented
brains listening to uneasy pavements; unbeknownst triteness or radiant black
sorrow while a parakeet seems flushed—this wave through chakras this penchant
about loses at graves imagining our faces; such incandescent guilt such iridescent
triumphs while a man forgets to unlace anguish; our daily intakes at something
relaxing to admit, I love the way you complete me, but you cause so much
pain.
it became its measure
re-sensed and furnaced while kilns unlatched and father lost abstract love;
this place in perfection to adore one if-and-only-if those charms never show illness;
to do as one pleases to feel content with such music while demanding 3 a.m.
hugs. our lassos filled with vignettes or this Ziploc rose so unconscious so
pure while devoted to running further; our legs body hounds our arms reaching
endlessly while mature people enjoy the eighty percent satisfaction.
those florid castles
those feral weeds while chaos cemented structure; but a fairer vagueness our
minds digging trenches at something too gray to confess; this sickening poet,
forever those songs, while I unvetted every syllable.
I love for it’s
appropriate. I do not love because of an indebted relationship, but purely for
those genetics speak a certain energy. this towering DNA those spirit muscles
those days where intense concentration altered our moods.
this endless kindness
this space we shelter by violets speaking our disaster; such erroneous
conclusions while a physician doesn’t need healing and sinners are first by
living last; this line of sharp churns our elephant getting cozy where I have
unleashed lions; our battle for something nebulous where efforts are quite like
stringy clay; our engine recycled our transmission but three gears while
reasoning seems stranded and naked; this constant voice this waning voice where
the poet prefers to originate; our cultured unreality, our starving high-rise,
while a soul unlatched a miracle.
moreover, a terrible excitement
our souls shifting into wildernesses and our frontier has become our
background: sprinting from father and semi-gunning through mother where
something desires a novel’s invention;
furthermore, a real
problem to exist with such disparate feelings or to fail to convey something
life-altering; this quadrant so impoverished those others halfway satisfied as
attempting some desperate perfection: While pleasing whom, in this land of
dysfunction, where eyes are ever elsewhere?
