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Entwined spring, parallel

stress and tension,

medieval neighborhood,

cauldron of nuclear energy:

we were drinking gin &

tonics from the Earth’s jaw

when the news broke. Roses

are red, violets are blue denim;

cupcakes are poisons, love

is a dinosaur (extinct, et cetera)

spreading gossips of the future is an

old friend shouting “don’t

be scared.” Dear decadence,

dearer satellite map of New York,

dearest thrust-to-cannonball ratio

from which God puts cock to

a chasm: Contemporary, my fucker,

is the naive language

of structure; our fellowship

gets complex when

we rupture Hell in unsimple

shapes. Fourth of July,

fifth of August, sixth of astral

lighthouses surrounding

the blank spaces, seventh: one is

always coming upon some

American state whispering I am

some American state & I am

the lust to be within it

when the sun luminates. We dance

beneath the asterisks, douse our

toes in the ink. The odds that the

stars and the spheres

will write our sentence

remain at its nadir.

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