An account very authentic,
And yet unaccountably faked,
Public, unfulfilled ambition
Simultaneously trickled,
Oblivious of its failure,
Down priest's reed, historian's pen:
I was meant to go home again.
Home being unknown origin
Or unknown destiny, the same,
I've been getting mostly nowhere,
Stranded and sandwiched in between
Two enormous, shifting deserts,
Hunger and signification,
Want and meaning, lust and seeming,
My parents. They made me. I am
A brief transit through which they pass,
Love and lying, flesh as the past
Posting its tricky messages
Like these fresh declarations nailed
To the rafters proclaiming, I
Have not consumed all, so spare me.
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