O these bonds packed with zeroes—harmony, grief, regrets. I’m done with memory. And every time I listen to your poetry, nausea becomes a river in me in which I swim naked, dispossessed.
I’m making a fetish of everyone dead, my electrons black with heat and sound.
O my thousand delicate microaggressions, bound up with a
hunger I can never grasp. Keep me safe, erotic. Be a mirror to these
movements of bourgeois frustration.
-D.S. Marriot
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