Hear through this place nothing play
Upstairs we are still all young poets now
Dressed inappropriately and acting thus
Stupid children
We don’t want to be here but want to be loved
Our silence has become the way of choosing
this
Hiding the disordered systems that really are
our lives
Anomalous & lurid
How much we enjoy critical theory even though
Whatever’s actual, that is really what is
right – yes – oh
Please parataxis would be our choice – but
it’s unstable
Just noise & fracturing
We feel fully hopeful & luscious, strange
At any feast we must deny ourselves & say
“NO!”
Carry on wandering these magnolia painted
corridors
Until we die
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