It's neither sex nor magic.
Abandonment or thrill.
Which party do you want to
be late for?
Which old song must we
sing along with?
Here come the fools, keeping
straight outta line and raging,
heated, livid, and
strangely democratic.
When can I show you my face?
Do we have to die to be together?
Everything I do is art news
to the Absorption.
Everything is process,
especially the Anti.
To the misfit memory I have of
a quiet childhood, to the
rolling stone that stuck me
to the ground, to the
river luck flowing
from my intimates,
penetrating earth
and giving her
fertility.
To the misfit memory I have of
friendships from the deep, crawling
out of caves and water-speak.
I may be heavy but I still float.
In the anti, behavior is in retrograde
and dances upon insecurities and
nuances. In the anti, there is only anti.
The process is squired, but genuine.
To the Absorption, I am an observer, having absorbed.
I've abandoned the renaissance.
I've found new thrill in my flesh home.
