.
Sometimes
she turns up in murderers — and when
fascist
flags are unfurled, she’s often the impulse
in those who
salute the enflaming pursuit of the flag
.
and its world
— she’s the final accoutrement to which
the psyche
must turn for its laws. She is, in a word,
the cause.
After packing its foolscap and foibles
.
and
folderol into its factory — gotten itself into gear —
only then
will a Conscience decide to appear, and her
brand is
the one that will most avail; she makes all
.
the
stodgy ones pale. No other conscience can do what
she can
to our inward allegiances, male, trans or female –
that is,
can release her containing companion from
.
leasing
its life to the tedious labor of moral behavior.
She
thinks a conscience is nonsense. She makes you
the lone
one at bat. No other conscience does that.
.
She is
what gives you the leave to do anything you
want to
do. Sometimes it aligns with the sociopathic.
At others
it hovers and spins to the center of what is
.
exactly true.
She’ll have left all of that up to you. She’ll
have gone
elsewhere to play. Pinning a note to the door
of your
heart: “Have a day full of dangerous volupté.”
.
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