The clear cut division;
between where you and me
make love, and the frequency
of fire engines running through the darkened streets;
“stop where you are,”
drop the gun.
An illicit transistor
amniotic junk box
hertz clocks; sinusoidally progressing through
Giving birth to
the realm of scientific religion.
Pagan gods lifted up
like heroes of the war,
conquering the minds and hearts of
causality’s reconstruction of the past.
My past with her,
my Roman holiday.
And I tear down every fucking wall
that belonged to her.
This shattered city,
I give you the keys to my kingdom.