Distillate
Into a swirling frown
of homophobia, I pursue your
needlessness. Your disgust has no peer,
no possible match, except what rushes near
to you, whenever you place your ear
against what you know you are, and listen
all too closely:
the sounds of a life far too many oceans away
echo, swirl, and fill the places between. I would say
you’re afraid, but then we both know that this
sediment goes by many other names;
by apathy, by disregard, by a bunsen burner shame
that endlessly hypersublimates;
that keeps reminding you to aspire to self-destruction and hate;
that keeps lying to you about the particulate
nature of every single tiny matter.
That claims psychoemotional titration is about
the weather;
that argues falsely that the folly of man is recursively committed
because the inner world
just isn’t a light enough feather.
The scales tip.
We fall back into the sequences, ever simultaneously worse and better.