What does it take to kill this spectre
Of electric memory that pulses through
Tips of my toes and drags my gut towards
Its incessant bubbling spring?
And at our confluence, sister, brother, friend
Where our charges shift and shade and sink,
Where our bodies tear into sparks,
What keeps us going on?
Mother, I have hated every moment
Of making space for suits and glasses and love,
When I could very well curl into
The current of our past and never wake up.
And now we flow in listless cities
Where everything runs but nothing ever moves.
We were built for rapids and foggy waterfalls
But now all we do is keep this fucking light-bulb on.