there is no poem here and maybe there never were any poems and maybe there is no song either. maybe everything will go away--could i resign myself to that? yes, but it would nearly kill me. or and--and it would nearly kill me.
there is no food i want to eat, no person i want to fuck, no way i want to be screwed by anyone. there is no home-ware or pair of shoes i wish to buy--no book to read, no show to watch. as a temple of self-indulgence, i have not been sated so much as glutted on the things i wanted.
and nothing is enough. oh god nothing is enough. there is no wall of flesh thick enough, no refulgence deep enough, no externality broad or real enough...there is no brokenness wide enough. just a tide--just a tide coming in. just a tide coming in.
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