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Poem 23

We have cheapened the stakes of criticism on others and ourselves.

Lives assembled in the froth of signs are fragile in their all-cost immanence.

As with the social, the virtual is nested in the lucid dream of utility, and as with capital, it thrashes and mutilates.

All signs must burn.

We must refuse to consume status.

Rapture is the wrapping of flesh in ambivalence.

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