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This is nonsense, and the canyons hear it,
Collecting air. Order writhes in a geometry
Beyond the spiritual. Bankers finger their mistakes
Crossing against the light of the soul!
The slide evaporates, the escape route telescopes,
The memory of the night of bonehead schemes
Renders the notion of illumination ridiculous.
Disasters of transcendence, it’s time to
clean the latrine,
Forget the drunken lunge at the besotted beauty.
That naked reality perpetrated in the tent
Lends itself to the habit of perpetual curiosity.
And while it’s a long way back, the absurdist sound
Echoes against the walls like nonsense
And fills the utmost self with tortured, nonsensical joy.