How do you break the rules when there are no rules?
How do you find your way when you're neither here nor there?
When nothing matters, who will mind when it breaks?
You've got no grip on me as long as I can't touch you.
Are we truly two ends of a spectrum, between us only Foucault on a power slide?
Oscillating mildly with no definite direction, no ambition to sign this with our blood?
My blood is ink
Your pulse is metre
These sheets are pages
What could be sweeter?
We're going into press tonight, with illiterate delights.
Written down means left unspoken.
Boneless spines too can be broken.
It's no good, of course. I don't mind though. Let your criticism be harsh and cruel.
Why does Michel Foucault look so much like Moby?