there are mysteries in life
that you will never solve
mortality and motives
this is why fiction remains
diverging from life
an art that comes from
answering questions
…
sometimes i think that capitalism
killed my friend
i heard a strain in his voice
as the pressures
of the century wore on him
but i know
it was by the weight of rope and hand
…
the past is flowing behind us
as a roll of golden silk and purple
velvet
we are belated
she tells me with an old wise smile
and i can feel that
…
the suicide
hated by christians
revered by samurai
taken by lovers and triads
by strangers and groups
under delusions or conclusions
beneath the duress of ones self &
connection
to plurality
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