Goodnight worldboy. Goodnight green fishes.
Goodnight neon and noisy kitchenettes.
Goodnight Orpheus. Goodnight Tantulus of Erotica.

I turn three times in a made bed of dew.
I snore like Euripides, dreaming in nuances,
dreaming of staccato jackasses,
of inorganic and immense distances.

It's a blue bluer than blue.
Take note, its inexact limitations
and great need for intimacy.
Think of all that languid blushing, Pere Ubu.
We adore and accuse you.

You, parochial. I, provincial.
And they, radically conservative.
So nothing can move and no word is ever uttered.
Nothing flamboyant. Nothing vaguely threatening.

Only the calm that comes
between two moments, two bullets, two instances.
Just the peace from knowing
one truth is not equal to another.