I think I hate my generation
A wrung out riot, gouged by sensation
A choir ringing in the death rattle of history
And stable frameworks for enduring obscenity
And does anybody here really believe
We're on track to die fulfilled and free, after decades of routines and wages and spectacle and monotony and borders stretching onwards ever onwards for the rest of our lives?
And maybe I'm the outlier, maybe we're the outliers
Bone starved for a way, we're bone starving for an actual stage, come on!
my body's not a vehicle or a cage, and yet it's bent, broke, and bailing out the wreckage of this age till I am tired and twisted, street sore and insipid, and down - scraped down and down and down.
I grew up in a melting room with melting walls in a sickle-tide of unmade thought, and the nature of it didn't make any sense to me at all so I dismissed it as violence - dismissed it entirely
Permutations of auratic intimacies, gleaned without comment, soaking in through the walls - a neon tactility, vibrant instability and it was fluid, immersive, and tidal as the language of dreams
And what's the cost of coming in? But finding others, real live others, hearts and skins
Come in, come in, come in, come in, come in!
Permutations of auratic intimacies to which I go willingly from an existence by isolation, regret, and alienation - I go willingly, I go willingly, I go willingly
I go willingly from the manufacture of the soul