(no subject)
I wanted to write a poem with dense words. This is related to my desire to develop a larger vocabulary. Following is the result. I don't know if it is comprehensible:
Dreams of Love
The idea of love is entangled with lust and the two
are embedded with imaginative depictions of delectation,
of afferent neurons erupting into fireworks, of skin breathing
skin, of satin and of roses and champagne fountains.
What delights exude from fantasy, from lovers undefined
and merely dreamed! Unreal yet enigmatic lovers loom large,
formed from cinematic inclinations and the capitalistic grail
quest, achievable for a monthly nine ninety nine.
But in dreaming excellence into reality, faultlessness become
priority over actuality. And the foibles of the cardiac muscle,
involuntarily contracting, are forgotten to be deciphered only
by anonymous psychologists on the self-help rack.
Beware, dreamers, your desperation for idyllic passion
throws insuperable impediments in your path.
The words you speak will be colored with cliché
and the dorsal root of your problem is already in over stimulation.
What I am saying, I suppose, is this: love is complicated by bodily functions
by daydreams late in the night.
What I am saying, I suppose, is that: though my heart is wingstrapped by imagination
it still dreams, oh yes, it dreams irrepressibly
of flight.
Dreams of Love
The idea of love is entangled with lust and the two
are embedded with imaginative depictions of delectation,
of afferent neurons erupting into fireworks, of skin breathing
skin, of satin and of roses and champagne fountains.
What delights exude from fantasy, from lovers undefined
and merely dreamed! Unreal yet enigmatic lovers loom large,
formed from cinematic inclinations and the capitalistic grail
quest, achievable for a monthly nine ninety nine.
But in dreaming excellence into reality, faultlessness become
priority over actuality. And the foibles of the cardiac muscle,
involuntarily contracting, are forgotten to be deciphered only
by anonymous psychologists on the self-help rack.
Beware, dreamers, your desperation for idyllic passion
throws insuperable impediments in your path.
The words you speak will be colored with cliché
and the dorsal root of your problem is already in over stimulation.
What I am saying, I suppose, is this: love is complicated by bodily functions
by daydreams late in the night.
What I am saying, I suppose, is that: though my heart is wingstrapped by imagination
it still dreams, oh yes, it dreams irrepressibly
of flight.