We call out and they claim to be the answer
We are the wishers, and they our fulfilment
We are the night, and they the day
What else? It is perfect enough
It is perfectly complete
Us and them
What more . . .
Strange, how we suffer in spite of this

But they don’t f*ck us cold-heartedly, we note
They don’t want to f*ck us at all, they claim
They’re just our lovers, they say
We don’t want to love them or them us — just our eternal and abnormal cravings are to be loved
We aren’t positive, but they are negative
We absorb, as if we must fill ourselves up with their loving offerings, because
We’ve got a shortage, somewhere, always

Sorta a messed up Eros
No recriminations, no reproaches, no guilt, no morality
For what’s morality but a leash around our and their necks —
A noose really
Morality here is but what other people want us to do, for their own, selfish, unstated purposes

Ours is a tragic age, yet we refuse to take it tragically
Cataclysms have already happened
We wander among the ruins
We’ve started building up new little e-habitats to hold new little hopes
Rather hard work it is
With no smooth road into the future
We go round or scramble over the obstacles
Gotta live no matter how many skies have fallen

Thus it’s a life in the void
These, our servants are spectral not really existing
We go for walks in our parks and the woods
Enjoy the solitude and the mystery while kicking the brown leaves of our autumn
Long ago having picked the primroses of our spring

Time goes on
Whatever happens, happens
Nothing happens when we are so beautifully out of contact . . . so
Time goes on as the clock does, half-past eight follows half-past seven

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