the regalia that choruses call their own amidst opulent rejoinders, cavort wherever noisome fulsome possibilities create the apertures for endurance of select defiances. once to seep where nothing gracious went, how the possible gratitude would serve itself inflammatory learning from tellurian posters underscored by reflection in the generalized. previously the results of being away would not hasten the rain of dusk wherever pleasingly the string quartet dinner soup kitchen veers out of control as fertility is debated by gnomes. once to foist upon the humanity of creators by syringing the ultimate indelible asphodel, the retinues demand control of inspiration, a softening of once-performed silences. aware of the numinous, nothing was said, as raided by creation those too large for entrance went outside and grated teeth for wooly mammon to parachute wherever otherwise imitated flesh went before the trammeled flotillas. however lost they feared themselves, at a rotund molecule to flee, they scratched the card to finesse a secret that no other world had seen befriended by light or dark. now with the cameras to rescind a politeness of serum amnesia that paralleled the softness of skin understood, no other lament waited for abrupt naming from the harassment of delight from serpents. understood as some other paradox, how many times cold or light would speak, nothing went unstated for those curious lateral bundles of glee that screamed for salmon and eggs in the ocean of dust and desire. swimming upstream was always their delight and no favor called outwardly too large for incendiary mitoses to begin where otherwise, not being harvested for above regalia, one becoming motile and conservative was clustered about the raiment of the quixotic that had not apparel to cover its soft body. nothing warned them then of what was to predict names of deepening rage. however loathed by fill-ins, rhetoricians could not sample the whole day of silence without a burst of laughter that inflamed the elders of times' leadership. guttural as the slices of cake were cut by the kingdom's caveats, nothing befriended the rubric that went without comment and commas whether or not 'too late was not too much' as the sold-out men and women always said. this is a void in the porcelain that no caveat could begin to accompany without needing some breath from the solvable meditations under the roof of tuned rumors so late as to begin with a snarl that fades to a smile. previously no poverty was accompanied by a pleading, previously no packages were turned back to the sender - it is a motionless lake that finds us here in the featureless imagination of pure movement and storm, no range too tropical.
|The East Village Poetry Web