Earth is the place where the subtle
dances with the crude.
If you think This is superior to That,
you're basically fucked.
You'll never be happy here.
This planet wasn't created
to be a gluten-free utopia for angelic hipsters
where the immaculate State imposes
Bodhidharma's diamond equity
on all sentient citizens.
That would be heat death,
the republic of entropy.
Some voluptuous creator made us
irregular and crazy as She is,
frustrating every attempt to taste
the world through ideas.
This lost paradise was made
for hugging opposites.
The Warrior and the Pacifist picnicking
in a meadow of bloodstained poppies.
The Man and the Woman dissolving
anger in the musk of love.
Virgin and Whore, both reflected
in the crystal wings of a dragonfly.
The Manufacturer guarantees that your heart will break,
scattering songs of immaculate catastrophe.
I'm sorry, forgive me, I love you, whip me again.
Lock my handcuffs
and lay me down in your
rattling nest of bright-fanged chromosomes.
Push me like a pebble through your fossilized bowels.
Take off all your man hole covers
and show me the lie of the ancestors.
I am not afraid of your hollow
subterranean trans bones,
or the vast quantum embodiment where every atom
of traumatic flesh is 99% emptiness.
The trigger is God.
Boom!
Thread me through your scarlet labyrinth
of skeleton sewers under the moon-powered city.
Guide me to the bridal chamber of the exiled queen,
She whose gaze is reflected in seven thirsty cups,
She who fills my heart with the sparkling wine
of the void.
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