Oh Queen of Macedonia we are the symptoms of a molecular joke, so will you dance me the mad dance again with the rage in your flaming hair, the dance you danced that night in the heartened dark behind the market? Will you trace the wild measures until they glow stiff, trapped in the teem of your world because my love there is no dance without words, only movement.
There is no without a beginning; we happen beyond the spell of our primate metaphysics, oh Queen of Macedonia, we are mistral ventures rippling across the hottening sand. We sheath each other in the world like this, setting suns over its asphaltic veins and smelting a farewell to the reckoning who enjoyced this, who is not mad for lack of lack, who is not afraid to reinvent everything for the mild embedded illness that we are.
...
Read full text