name it culture of madness,
we name it culture of
bloodsucking dreams,
sacred territory,
our skins glued together
in the most beautiful accident
of slipping judgement.
we don’t speak of excess,
we speak of an exile that
unites us, wave to wave,
fracture to fracture,
we speak of
gardens at the frontier of life
where we learn about
the manifold types of death.
because we are made of
the air that we occupy
in possessive surges of love
and the asphalt that we crush
shapelessly,
we will be favoured by the gods.
our bodies will end
in a place where nothing is uncertain,
in some kind of afterlife,
erecting and living
a fulfilling vision
of all the insecurities of the world
made flesh.
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