There’s no way forwards which isn’t a way

back to the dark debt of

curiosity; of financial pain;

of unmanly idiocy:

the foolish thinking that

liking means liked, when just as easily

it means: “Let’s see what he’s dumb enough

to do and make out; let’s see what he’s daft

enough to work out and


And I so wanted likes to mean liked,

oh I did; but now I realise just as

easily they meant: “Go and fuck yourself up!”;

oh and we do love the spectacle.

And nothing ends, and

nothing receives and nothing re-

leases the demands of the

weals that configure my whipped

body and soul, and rolled

like tank tracks on the undergrowth

that was me.

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