Mammalian life trying hard not to exist as manky bandaid sandwich.

The fillings that serve as the space between us,

flesh echoes in the conversational cloud. Miry, like margarine,

swan songs of a sensory condition that lies mute, inarticulate,

in the new virtual century. We resist at the last moment of mourning.

Not angels, nor heathens neither, but bodies of a kind

now emptied of innocence and inference. Scratching the sunspot

that crusts around youthful headiness. The golden age is before us,

not behind us. This body once had wings and a myth,

delicately worked, this body once had collagen and memory,

was warm and bready, sprang back at a knife’s touch,

knew how to read and desist the meet-me-at-the-edge instructions.

This body that failed to dress the open wounds that lie between.

Yeats’ turntable rambles: even the best of love must die.

This or sufficiency just not to exist as manky bandaid sandwich.  
Sources: Henri de Saint-Simon, Opinions littéraires et philosophiques (1825);

W.B. Yeats, “A Memory of Youth”