Intimately
you know that
I know you don't me at all.
We are friends
in pain, only,
on my end at least.
I think you claim
that you can help me
be a better studier
of my own culture
or something. My response is
doors closing,
next station,
for fuck's sake.
It was already a bloody circle.
Why did we need
yet another extension?
Because necessity
is the mother of invention,
and I am gay and not interested in having children,
so this analogy
will just have to double duty
on a narrow-gauge railway
built for no one
but you.
Next station.
Next frustration.
It's not yet automated,
but I speak nothing but the truth:
autopoietic individuation
is a terrible name to lose
sight of.
I would have terminated it somewhere else.
Somewhere
after One-North, maybe.
Somewhere where
one day, I will finally lie down peacefully
and not give a damn
about how historians are ever going to make any sense
of what was going on in these poems.
Someday where
one gay, on his ownsome,
will finally find a way
to restore them:
the lovers you took from me.
The lives you pretended I could lead.
The livers, and the kidneys and gall bladders and arteries
that I have given so freely.
Cut up,
I could almost not be a circle.
Meh.
Really.
Lol.
If only.
Heh.
Luckily.
I said
it's a little bit more like
eternity.
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