Nineteen seventy-nine, no web goes everywhere: do not read the
Comments but do support the two-color printing of sombre zines

Pink and green so we may picture tropical locales in our central
Provinces, so we can deflate our omnidirectional feelings on filial

Piety, which you are kind of obsessed with recently, am I right
Emotions and piety and palm trees wavering against brutal facades

Sun over sun when no one is looking for you, no one Googling you
Without knowledge of the joke of your surname, just relax, just hope

For great wedding presents, for listening to The Bollweevils again
On the Chiyoda Line, for big flames for life purpose: what have they

Become, these glaciers melting, this slavery that giveth unto you
A specialization in making others feel bad after yourself, so so lost

In the haze, the hate, even, traces of the blast: tropical modernism
That’s what it is, lush foliage plus bone-clean concrete protecting

You and yours, just sleep through the bright, stay awake in the rain
It’s a shabby black malady to have any problem with success so

Stay with your appreciation of failure: sounds like a performance
Of anonymity, poetics of invisibility, performativity of relationality

Some golden standard lubricant for existence, such plenitude, such
Pelagic depths you swim in to return the spells of this rainy day

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