I know you don't think
I want to look good.
I know you think
I don't think.
I know you think
I am made of scorn.
Of sex, prodigious and prescient;
the kind that knows what you want
even before your previous incarnation
knew it was somehow
in the wrong Mundansa.
My darling,
my subverted one;
my hands of sand, draining into the desert:
I am parchment from that darker time,
tattered,
torched,
reliquiescent.
You know some of the curses still work.
Some of the cursed still wait.
Don't worry.
I am the masks you were sent to mine.
I am a thousand orchids older than time.
I am the calls the wind makes
as it skitters through the First Cities;
I am ruinous, untrembling serendipity.
I am the arguments of every ancient quarter
The assassinations of YouTube.
The anachronistic claims.
The quaint.
The pseudobombastic.
The quasiprofligate.
The one who guards you
as you lie awake,
dreaming of me,
waiting for someone to explain
why it is synchronous that you and I
are a caravan,
a coliseum,
a floating market
anchored to the gardens of ruined skies,
dead men's theories,
closeted men's dusty, decorous
trophies.
Lay it all on me.
Decorate me.
Entomb me in your excesses.
Eresberes di eternidadi.
Extremes and edges.
History is written by those in the right,
and entranced by those
who exist stage left.
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