I howl at the moon of my substance. The slit is halved; quantization reversed. August is purnima.

Not nocturnal, no, not anymore. Less caffeine, more sunlight. Rebirth. Rebirth.

In a house, domestic. A routine. I howl at the death of my inhibitions. “This is mania,” I shout. I shout at the shipwreck of my profanity. I perjure myself. Prison. Prison.

Burden as the baby is born; with a little help from my friends, the burden is gone. Remnants. Remnants. What remains is what I accept. What I accept is who I am.

Wave function shan’t collapse. Let there be repression. Gossip. Gossip. I howl at the derangement of my lust. I lust for the ink from Tashkent.

Sanjaya, in the halls of warriors and kings alike, a faun has claimed a seat. Profess. Profess. What remains is semantics. Semantics is what I accept.

So silken, enamored. I expose and burn. Touch. Touch. I howl at the touch of your divinity. I howl at the frown of your disgust.