Away from diabolic human voices,

the stream laps a fertile shore.

Seeds are converted from solitude

into raging networks of another kind.

These are the ties that bind, not literate society.

This product is ironic in its guise.

Even my pen trusts the deeper tides,

and not its assembled printers.

Gravity is a posterior truth.

The eyes don't know it

unless they are firmly anchored.

Dancing is the pivot of my dirge.

The monolith does not impress death.

The outer hegemon has grown

beyond touch and influence.

I would rather play in the ruins.

Your paragraphs grow dim

inside the corridors they inhabit.

Nobody can visit your narrow gallery.

Only the violating alien can vibrate,

fecund and flowery.  Open the forbidden bowery.