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Man is the animal who will not be himself

Innermost part of my veins

Like an oppressive regime

And Ceausescu's palace a mere analogy for my mind

Empty halls and redundancy…

No clear skies tonight.

Darling, there are no clear skies tonight

How am I meant to imitate the up-above

If I cannot see my reflection in it?

I resort to puddles, for there are no lakes and

I am not Narcissus

But I do know I will hear you Echo

Your voice resonant, pervasive, all at once;

I've got you stuck on a loop

And I am too afraid to press eject

Cassettes are fragile, and this CD

Is the only thing of you

That I have left

So forgive me, but I cannot let you rest

Keep singing for me

Until the puddle evaporates,

And takes my reflection away with it

love has no boundaries, no county lines

but I am neurotic,

a perfectionist

so I am compelled

to draw borders in, with blue ink.

"What was my mad heart dreaming of?" -Sappho

It is that spectacular night sky that, shameless, spread before the eyes of the Lord, lures me to all the corners of the cosmos that I've yet to touch, bound by a sense of child-like innocence. It is

Carnage, carnage. My soul wants carnage. My mind wants bacchic excellence and my sacrilege demands a justification. What I desire, however, is my total condemnation. A form of arithmetic christening,

You burned into me unsalvageable desire. My flesh is scorched, arteries and veins ravaged (they hang in the space between what was and could’ve been), presenting me with my own sin – I must look it in

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