sit with me, my dangerous darling.
the sea has spoken over the telephone
and the forest has wrestled with the circuitboard.
these petty dramas are abolished,
these soft pleasentries are the sum of our dignity.

who taught us to react? to take the blood of night
and raise it against the milk of the day,
to cower in cubbyholes when our agonizing rites fail,
to sweep cobwebs from our books has though
housekeeping were an accomplishment?
who can teach anything but obedience or rebellion,
despair or hope? It was in these tunnels they
call streets that i learned darkness, in this
waiting room that i learned light. But both were
false and dissapating, negligent of pure life
admist death, a ridicule of the spirit.

i walk with nervous twitch down cobblestone alleyways,
half sick of shadows and half wishing to dissolve amoung them,
sick of tradition and disgusted by innovation.
is this the ridicule of our times? That we are to
travel amoung dim scenes, ironically distant
while longing for the simple affirmation of attunment
to delicate shades, torn not only among opposites,
but also amongst the pillar of ourself? Or is this
my solitude, while you, you have drunk in the streetlights
with your arm around soft shoulders, dancing and
saying fuck-all to the wars and treacheries that
build a city street, that build a life?

It is all too much and I wish there were a simple ending,
like the glowing faces of drunkards laughing in acceptance.
But consolation is a far penninsula and conclusion is a gravestone,
set in stone like the disaster of the earth, sewn with veins
of basalt like eternity conspiring to creep into the everyday,
immobile like the tragedy of fear in the face of what we must change.