We join together in a dark room that reeks of rotting plants and grains, ferment, not to mention the flesh, rotten, bent into coward stances, and we dance. We believe that this charade is a kind of romance and get attached to thoughts of men and women ignorant of what they are thinking, attached to what hints at an ecstatic freedom of the mind but is actually our most tender disaster after birth. What if this life is a past life? What if this rifle on our shoulder can be folded into flowers. What if the bull while charging, is weeping also
And the objects, though solid, have no shadows. And it is this violence from within that protects us from a violence without. And can I thus alter the principal upon which I enjoy my life, can I be a starship on my own terms transcend the risk of depletion, kill the sun I once worshiped, peace should not be a negotiation. We are negotiating peace. Peace should not be a negotiation. Are we waking up from a chain reaction, the way only love can wake us up, only the love we have denied, lost, then reached out for again sleepwalking in the dark. I'm interested in sex and clothes. The way our bodies react to all of this sitting how passive even the passion is in pretty chairs and houses
