The loss of self-identity the paramount defeat, to the atemporal emptiness of impotence is linked,

as if life licenses lifelessness when making indistinct and issues sickness, something missing,

if it isn’t grunting, twisting, in an orgy of conceit,

the historic supersession of the gutted by the glutted,

a sardonic cacophonic feast with croquembouche a part of each who dissipates this centerpiece

and celebrates, by proxy, self-destruction and relief.

Dismantling the surface, seeking secrets underneath.

Discovering the meaning by disposing of the being.

Piled high identical with additive eventual of caramel as ganglia

(connected but discretely real)

autono-nomic monoliths in god-honest unanimous afraid of what would happen if

the sense of self unzipped, or ripped, or fell through a Cartesian rift,

beyond all subjectivity, all painstaking self-history, all epiphenomenal qualia, 

relativity über alles.

Un-handcuff holding testament, submissive will contextual, proverbial, it’s early still,

I’ve only just come home. I'll join the protest later.

I'll caramelize impatiently my

inside-outside memories.

I have to have a history.