No
dogma anymore – no fog pretending to be clarity. No disparity
pushed
off, or parity embraced because it’s parity. No answers
either.
On the whole, I take a breather every time I can.
I
muddle through on several bases, all of them to do with pleasure,
dangerous
and almost always with a man. Freud’s despotic
eros
fighting with its weapons of catastrophe: the measure
of us
below and above: aggression and love and finicky me!
Who
would think that bumbling dyad up
except for – nobody.
But
if my mind remains as fully unknown and alive as I’m thankful
it seems
to me today, not patently exile-able and throwable-away
as once
I guess I thought it had to be, in sweaty throes of fighting
foes
that perfectly excited and ignited me, enacting a defense
against
a secretly erosive harsh belief in sin. A silly belief in sin.
(There
may be sin, but it ain’t what I’m in.) I muddle through,
it’s
true, when I do not subscribe to creeds: I’ve the chance
that
way of finding all the best delicious secrets in my needs.
Then
I become reliable, and viable – no longer as exile-able
as
once I guess I must have thought I was. I can be Casey
at the bat who when he feels
a cosmic buzz will always hit the ball
and always win the ball game:
The Shames versus the Testicles.
Sins Against the Fuzz. I love
that I’m inanity. Vanity? I call it sanity.
.
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