sex is what happens on piles of naked skeletons
stripped of the senseless insensible
flesh,
it is all the terrible under every memory,
the proximate painless
and never parties yet,
like William Burroughs climbing out of a car
so old it is permanently history
and has always been rusty freedom
to dream in, empty boys, suicide
the cruel exigencies of non-being;
what happens is flesh and skeletons,
the banality of good and evil
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