I like when there is silence,
an absence of something;
void that speaks louder than the deafening everyday
God, let there be silence.

My paradigm is abuzz
partly by the droning of some referee in a match my brother’s
mostly by the noises I can’t ignore;
people in my head and that I am,
or could have been.

Do we need to talk?
We never say what we think;
When will we be free of conversation?
When a man will walk up to you and offer sex, just sex…

It isn’t that important to look good,
either in the things you say,
mostly in the things you say.
in the chaotic precedents to looking good are things way beyond
all around are identity and anorexia traps-ways to package

None of us is above this,
we’re condemned, doomed, stuck if you like,
There are deep gashes in glossy lycra fantasies,
and all I have are words.

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