memory hole

We used to ask what might come after the orgy — mourning or melancholia?
Jean Baudrillard, The Illusion of the End

Martin Puryear, Woodcut for edition of Cane, by Jean Toomer (1923)

I’m trying to remember if spring always starts out this slow. Cherry blossom photos start popping up online. Winter’s scandals begin to blend into sales for sandals. Days stretch beyond blue twilight.

We desire soft power, wash out our ghosts, and pleasure places we neglected.

Us dandy men and hard women eventually repent the same—on our knees. Quietly, let us break down to the softness of desecration. Vandalize public anticipation, then escape into too much artificial light.

 

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