(for Sarte at the time of my birth)
immediate experience is our lonely
exigency, we are these loathsome
flecks of constituent reason and whorish
history our abstraction we never
fall in, with all our failings.
all those vaunted fusions were but a minute's
excitement, little egos like lice
on history's page, and Mitsein he used
to like to deny just an ego's licked nipple,
a brave oblivion,
his choice, not mine, and life was like that,
selfish and lovely as a cat, and for us
our need is sexy hexis, incites us to
nothing, not even love and the Third
who looks at us, mediating these beings
as effectibely as a dead fish,
and that's where dialectics dies
lively, a dirty great stiff
dick, not unlike this, and
the selfishness of bliss.