What makes the race?
The skin thin or deep.
The blood with the pace.
The silence in the sleep.
The mix-up of the memes
searching for its parts.
Tear through all seams:
another theory of starts.
Then maybe the stairs
supported by ghouls
tear into the stars
inflating all rules.
Throw me the Party Ever
where we can lose the mind.
Where pleasure’s primary weather
wet faced through the wind.
Contradictions swirl about us.
How bright our colors could be
in the infinite impersonal
between universal U and me.