She plays Chopin by the seashore

like someone in love // someone rubbed the wrong way—

days under drought & flood

evenings under ash & microbial mists

miasma invades & infects &

murders the will to play—

January inertia // full immersion

in absurd perversions // worst version

of the Self—cycled unconscious

re-conscious of-conscious if-conscious

reverberations in the cranial reservoir.
Men in iron masks came to take her away

to maim/reclaim/defame her melodies

but rage of the lyrical

cracks the liberal & the literal //

the mystical physical inimitable rebel

cooks florid with fluid flames

& wears a chrysanthemum

in her hair.
We’re doing alright these days thanks //

together searching for effervescent dynamism—

white wine realists & red wine Romantics //

truth hurts but it doesn’t harm //

breaking free from suffocating ecstasy

& homogenous hegemony

& analysis paralysis //

we harmonise with 12am streetlights

illuminating how strange the city is on sleepless nights.