My penis has a sore
from getting caught
on my zipper
during an extended session
in hermetic love of binary
objections on video
displays flickering
a dying light.
I see music in the faces
that ring out of my cog
driven, enslavement
of idle key strokes.
An urban filter sun
that starts out on a whales back
travels from an elementary union of
Hydrogen atoms where souls
wait to union with another
in the grandest form
of love audaciously carpets me.
I see their deaths,
lonely and sorrowful,
and love them anyway:
those zeros that make up
all of my dreams tonight.
screaming at low volumes
