kind of a short story, of sorts:

sepulchral geometries

a carved heart

an offer of love is dampened diction; it burns and it sleeps and it is thin.

beyond the disparities of our geometry, in the realm of the invisible, we were dedicated to abandoned travesties. at the beginning of this labyrinth, a delicate solicitation. a cruel reduction of the spectrum to a bare prism. we were explorers of senses, dashing forward, frozen and polar. we conquered the research of feelings, eggregious devotion a crooked capture.

simplicity prepared us for splendor, my memory amassing rhythms cut into parts; we visited the scattered flashes of white, sublimating confidence in this new friendship of reaching. it was necessary to be an astonishing revelation of the most sacred limits of place and language.

it was the limitless idea of your turned-away eyes, crawling castoffs in this palace of prudence; it was the lamentable eccentricity of accumulations and the fleeting malleability of flesh. the curl of discrete geometric form in the secret wilderness of your eyes, colors peddled in motionless riddle; disorienting reflected labyrinths undressed by the cold heart of science.

the menacing air you ignored was an image of a beautiful dream, which again adjusted the focus into vividness and a quality of important proof; the silent attendant a strange, skeletal silhouette of eternal reorganization.

i searched your interactions, finding a familiarity in the sonorous pictures of leaves, in the violent beginnings of life; the peace inhabited by us entreating us to envision, to traverse its hypothetical spaces, to investigate its dense intimacy. bodies collapsing decisively, dangling at the end of a tied noose. it had the same vulnerability, a fragile consistency; its landscape a spiral incline into the life of reason by furious beginnings. in the rooms where we could be the figures of form, nightmarish and strong, the rooms where the heart ended up, the game of shadow was a meticulously dispassionate whole.

the physical impulses of desire were confronted, meeting as flat cutouts of the organs of the body and the elbows of parts; desire was indispensable and grotesque; instantaneously, the truth which dwelled inside us was a nearsighted insistent idea, an accidental accident. the moment in question an extension of the same vulnerability, the same fragile complicated possibility of a carved, strong, walking heart.

the finished heart is characterized, often obscenely mimed. a pantomime of strange shadows and craving sepulchral geometries. the life of the heart is an extreme image of resonance. it is possible to be a possession grasped, a specimen of the fearful structure above.

you had sufficient strength to breathe, to force me to invent silence and rely more on physicality, displacing articulation; to be closer to the secrets of the body, not reducible with words. you became silent speech, were conscious magnificence. you were moved by the mystery of the story of the body. the escape to illusionism was audible, separated from the harmony ahead; a poem the only remnant of a world where a yesterday of make-believe utopias was the desirable state.

the grey terror of efforts was a toothed hole in the corner, between the buildings and behind the gates; an unwanted penetration into the secret shade. this adolescent façade, the occasional leaks of ebullience. a poetry of refusal, a cotton candy, tattered poetry. a subversive appraisal of innocence.



dreaming

before dying, an affair of love; in some way it would become an examination of the process of the remnants of disappearance. it would embody the cruelty of the weather.

you were in attendance, the collection collected by your grotesque range of vision. a serendipitous gift of apologetic virtues and small epiphanies. the harrowing crevasse of sublimation and brevity unknown and cruel, an invisible sky immediately everywhere.

we were together and small, belonging to the dull catalog of general things and the air that receded insistently. the dangerous secrets of the empty cosmos burned through the air. perhaps the metaphor was this mysterious vacancy, the perfection of space only barely preserved.

we arranged our dreams, cast toward each other and opposed; we were frightened to die, at the edges of stasis, the excesses where we slept. we gave in to vicissitude, ancient poetry and deified process. baffled on the surface.

we fell from our interpreted dreams against one another in the landscape of ancient poetry, spectators assembled in illusions of motion. i was struck by short fragments, chaotic and loose, accumulated in my memory. evasive intriguers launching the moving shadows and refocusing ephemera to interpret this body of meaning. with the great disaster, friendship.

we slept, a man embedded and a woman fastened, bordering on a sense of the independent; witnesses to a declaration of ecstasy. we slept and our dreams were contiguous; a nation of self-effacement in this poetic godhood, a reconciliation process exaggerated and broken down.

you were overwhelmed by the quagmire, a postcard of the rough sea of yearning; wanting substance and finding it in explanation, in the ensemble of voices whose empty speech was loud. a tacit understanding can withstand unusual resonance, utopia-building word by word. it is a many-city lifetime of destitute massiveness; autumn is cruel and it cancels the arrangements.

i was a gleaner, aware that this was all that would remain: that dark warmth we have had, overflowed from the morass that it tried to conserve. i used mirrors to store the reflected daylight.




autumn

mute thoughts, tacitly approving, acquiescence and envy perpetual; we ruminated on them simply for the static implications, a mixing of wish and technique. two people speaking the undeniable, a peace we oddly had, lazily compared to the sea. the world had become visible, confronted and mutely reproached, all but tortured with the puzzle of dead legs, the implications of staring. the grimmest implications of autumn abolished and subsumed the repercussion of looks, understanding the life that tells tales.

the existence which separated us was gathered to my body in order to rejoice in the animal of breath as before, the mistake of wondering an autumn falling sound. my memory of the rhythms which displace the abnormality of various wonders was not enough; coherent reality wanted an explanation, a standardized sequential life, the aberrations trivial. the question of permanence a sacred border in the nighttime sky for the moon to use without grace.

a sense of betrayal predominated, the collecting rhythms absent-minded lightnings selected for nothing. the troubled matter of love and the deliberately inconclusive friendship of dialogues was the most persistent question found under the sky of night; it was as the moon, a refined poetics intended for divinity.

i was destroyed, was an amateur; it was similar to facing a losing battle in flammable formal clothes. you attempted to tame and to contain other grisly dangers, throwing faint, moving shadow in the pursuit of elusive, anomalous and intriguing objects. and between the tailor's hands, a carefully constructed daydream. the matter of love is established in deep ignorance.

you were not an outline of yourself, an absence in this mingling desire; you were the result of destruction, the emptiness that you distanced yourself from. the indolence of envy, the mirror speaking the horrors we ignored. the allegorical objects we concealed remained open, punctured. indomitable feeling died, undeniably ravishing, mutely against resignation and envy; it fell on deaf ears and dead feet, idleness become the new eternity. we were caught alive together, all concreteness of life a silent gain and loss.

the flesh confronted dark criticism and grey laughter, promising thrills to empty spaces. balancing exquisitely between approval and poetics, the animal possibility becoming such work. viscous tactile methods and the image of their partly slandered surfaces turned affection into flesh and blood, the remains colored by accounts of some fearful mental wound, a riddle that stood still.

a love affair in the weather still has the memory, the outlines, of poverty; a war on all spheres of life. the contemporary wind contains other terrors. a partial archaeology of the evocative apparatus of misguided yearning, an obstinate myopia. ephemeral things like meaningful clarity are disappearing remainders.




water in the rain

the humility of tenderness, the play between raptness and mystery, were frozen in this motionless conundrum; inquisitive emptiness like a storm in expectant forests. i endured a certain damage in the process; refusing the existence of it all, robbed of my sight. i was the thing that stuttered through mazes with the beasts, crawling with piety and fleetingly weary.

disrespect is easily broken, is the accidental thing. it is strong, carved, large; it crosses the intimate hypothetical space. it is a kind of dream. it happens in the passive tense and remains that which is everything.

you were obsessed, not distant; more unrelentingly bored than was felt. i was drifting on the bed, burning where they threw violated little girls. any punishment can be endured. the power of explosions, the dark eye; the mutation flexible, ravishing and important. remaining calm another form of giving slipped from my body.

you saw angels in the shafts, the impression profound and ghastly. it was the beginning of history, a fearful construction of puzzles. this disowned aura of strange visions was an illusion of imagination, these phantoms haunted similarly by the shudder of smoothening logic. your cold heart stripped my defenses. it was the petaled endurance of flowers in ice and polar regions, a whisper becoming the sky and the sun.

your empty elongated eyes looked at me without mercy, soliciting my devotion with terror and infinite beauty. they were an answer to the mundane truth of life, a flash of reverence and the beginning of this congealing melancholy. the ability to make this work, the persistent materials and mighty effort fluttered like a saint in a niche, vanished to become the sea. the vacancy which consumed them slipped, became rivulets of water in the rain.

i looked to the mountains, the silver smell of the shifting clouds like an icon of destruction conflating so scarily. reeling away from the drama into the dawn the way most people go. the violent suicide of death in perfect focus. too much mental mess, secrecy resounding upward along the streets. our bodies transferred, increasingly redundant, failed and failing.




defeat

blind, ardent mouths made the night felt; revolving, flexible, like the change you see in the surroundings of trash. there was a sad girl's defeat, fragrant on a black sand beach; a tower blue poison filling the callousness of words, spilling from my mouth. the night felt your dark eyes as a variant indistinguishable from magic, a perfect survey of tragedy and suffering. a failure to explain unbroken windows. we would like to die here; possibly we are already dead. visible, tremendous.

you were the shadow that neglected the fable of your death; a night of variation releasing me to your desire from the hum of locusts. the darkness, your eyes a kind of poetic fantasy; i wished that they could have remained defect undraped; distant eyes cut together, staying a different shape inside.

you endeavored, your strange resonance killed by the fire in the warm, dark tunnel where the thing that dies is not feared; you thought of life as a test specimen, the perseverance of processes where vulnerability is complicated. it was easy to escape being irregular.

he who is not recognized is strong, lasciviously persistent, in order to preserve life under the mirrored stars.

we imagined the destruction; it entered the daybreak, a tragedy to consummate fires, a blind reduction; death, rationalized, drifting to the night. sometimes it revealed the sun, the shift of bodies, and words i reversed from my mouth. the brown sea manifested as festoons of flowers given to the body perverse; it learned how it was by illusion. our deaths were actualized in simulacrum; a round round sound, a type of poetic imagining; more and more repetition. defeat.

expansion to the physical world, almost absent of people, and i a rejected ghost. i was not afraid. i was built in the elsewhere dead's sound, the ceremony inside my dress evolving the fire which enveloped me. i was easy to ignite.

i will characterize my history
with regard to my body,
words a mess in my mouth.

how desperately i yearned for
the scent of sadness.

two hands stopping my future,
hair all around; golden currencies
propagated by the electric light,
the red spearheading chorus
near my heart.

i am white, a sparkle of possibilities;
i am callowness, my heart a graphic
design textbook of scars.

from my mouth overflows the aroma
of acid defeat, quailing the silence,
brown and rotted at the edges.

there are sad animals all over this world,
the bubbles of the body a liquid parade,
soured by the power of loveliness.

the adoration of uncertainty
is a revolution, a stolen
significance

the bulk worshipping of
human will prohibits,
renders helpless with
uncertain and anxiously
guilty questions, procuring
guilty answers, an uttering
of confessions and
nonabsolute invariables

there will be only
the pessimistic unborn
under them, under
their gray origins
--

to sleep, different inside,
together with the beasts,
you fight; you do not know
the obstinate fear of the fog,
the resignation to linger on
the most sententious signs of
an insistent idea.

no accompaniment except
small chiseled offers,
the irreconcilable objection to
answers.

no guidance apart from
the most eloquent symptoms of
a man fighting hard.

there is a crime in denial,
impossible in this world of
rebellion and scurvy confessions,
gray colors and a quantity of
helpless victories.
--

strength, strength.

these various confusions
prepare themselves to know
what ugly consent they express.

this irreconcilable, contradictory
consummation forbids and lulls,
in the flustered attempt to betray
the cold compromise of warfare
and force, the victory of possibility.

uncertainty an insurrection kept
by a disabled hero.

i will limit my answers.
i will name only a beginning.

we were chained-choked slaves,
in fear of discovering a tolerance
of everything; it is all values
betrayed, a distant insensibility
and a condemning vice of men.

we were immolated,
that distant spring silence
a blind riot where the lowest
savage was memorized.

in such abject deviations
the argument is useless.

there is nothing it cannot
degrade and decompose.