Wednesday, October 7, 2020

Iron Gates, Pain Fences

 

would it be sex-alienation or courage into a jungle? so sultry so remote such a dangerous insistence. curtains open bodies naked neighbors ringing doorbells. so knotted so deceitful so crazed in blood or damage or rubies. I took silence or harbored essence such blue rage or violet shrubberies. by traffic lights such morning mists such mildew; oh for dying such glory in its patch so cursed it feels so damn good! mulberry fantasies such a destroyed intuition such sensuality in a match; our guts ruined our bodies laughing while an asthmatic was wheezing. a quick mango too much to live where it was never such a question. I feel so crooked. I reread Ecclesiastes. I searched for one among a thousand. those haystack eyelids those rubescent thighs while a man can never say enough; it doesn’t exhaust, it’s over its debt, it owes its very existence; to one flying to one fleeing to one too enlove for just one beach. our waterfalls our cascades if but to rage hell at sunrise; a candle in its mirror a saint on its candle a mystic so deranged. for Love is passion or recreation or a drug too much to abandon. relight something dying or reinvent something fell boring but never run so early. raw aeipathy or frittering away to churn a memory into sawdust. a man to a seesaw a feeling-skiing-seas or an hourglass flaming its insincerities; as cursed to live, or cursed to stay, as damn near dead to leave. to have but us, on those delicate terms, as girlfriends are sick with the praise they give.

sexual pain gates to sacrifice lasciviousness in exchange for monogamy to have screams as burning in cotton such flame to announce our coming nuptials. by birdsong by fiery devastation so wanton for one delicacy. so much our first child so much our rivers as flowing into majesty. if but to adore or to feel rage so compensated by sheer magnetism. if but selfish for us so determined for us like a library to literature. a bluebird memory a redbird deluxe so into you & every muscle. those amenities those hostilities while I pause, listen, or fix something perceived as cruel.  

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...