I was not made to live anywhere but paradise
such, simply, was my inadaptation.
Enclosed within shifting degrees of angular walls
dyed green and yellow, adorned with simulated cityscapes
and skeletons of forgotten animals.
I find solace in simple images reflecting outside lands:
your hair of twisted hemp heaped lazily
lassoing paisley pillows, a thickly woven canopy
above a pale and snowy prairie, pierced
dunes diving into swift currents coursing
through soft valleys before plunging into
Bataille's impossible abyss, riding waves of
long thighs to climb a column of bone
to claw a clavicles curve
to be lost, hopelessly.

I see the shape of space in smoke rings
in unpossessable lunar landscapes and lakes of
spilled wine staining these wooden floors from which
inchoate desires spring from long dormant wells
demanding sacrifices like some
obsolete god tyrant
raining down torrents of acid whiskey
through the haze of exhaust seething beyond
every window.

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