brought forth by a sinister,
deceptive, bourgeois plot,
belonging to a hidden Illuminati,
unknown even to themselves,
obscured by immeasurable space-time.

whose self worth,
is to self preserve,
and obey the invented physical laws,
of a dead universe,
with a pesky living problem.

sold heteronormative,
definitions of one’s self,
the only exit, 
a Foucauldian reappropriation,
of the same shit.

given free rein to run in the yard,
so long as you don’t fly away,
as if they could clip your wings anyway,
and put you in solitary confinement,
on a planet of squabbling hens.

to the idea of love,
the unanimity of truth,
the possibility of there being,
a point beyond,
being some sociopathic chemical’s vector.

my soul bursting out,
through fleshy pustules,
until my deflated body,
jets away,
and can never be recovered. 


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