Sunday, January 9, 2022

May The Garden be Serene

 

—so whet for passion, so afraid of intimacy, one needs by the guarantee; candescent elements, its sheer betrayal, so lost, at love with hyenas; effulgent eyes, table candy, mother was boiling eggs; I know this love, where souls unravel, while minds search for cadence; interior whelps, wretched projections, abandoned spirits; upon a kadupul, painting lilies at wishes, screams, a furnace in time; masks unthreading, stories becoming bizarre, ghosts seizing opportunity—

 

                                                                                                —re-crochet its dungeon, reknit the vacuum, so torn to achieve—

 

an interior mind-quake, terrible penchants, ecstasy in aggressive moon-shakes; splattered acrylics upon a resistant canvas, so close to thrown or received; partial contract our unconditional forgiveness, souls soon take advantage; feelings are discreet, palaver is overwhelming, the contract of mutuality hurts.

 

 

sublime. petite.

 

to engage iron with stone; scattered particles, subtle distracters to curve behavior by a mere gesture; radiant power, reserved, it becomes resentment; unveiled animosity, pure calamity,

pain has become erotica; affixations, casual disapproval, words are seen, never

accurately; the evil paradise, the crazed reality, reasoning is askew;

          a doctor, a woman, melding; gelid moments,

unbolted breastplates, it must feel terrific: 

 

by the twilights— honeysweet vinegar, surrounded by the amulets.

 

those voiceprints, such inadequacies, at paradox by the curtains;

a woman looking in mirrors, to arrive at feelings,

estranged from unsaid feelings; a man too worn to fly,

anger is the emotion;

internal choir, at fire or damages, richer sorrows become energies; capillaries, stronger in brains, it has become others; reigning nightfall into demented parallels, enduring sanity; kismet channels by the young, intuition sensing something has long expired; (If but one blow or one good disturbance in order to feel surrendering).   

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...