Simulacra

In the world of illusion, steeped with the simulacra
of sign upon sign, fact upon fact become the
monstrous contours of a slippery reality.

To see the truth of what's there is ungraspable,
unquestionable source that evades my thought
when I send it there.

And there it is, in its pristine original beauty,
once again a calamity inaccessible to me,
making me want it.

The sign playing me erotic songs, and I'm no dancer,
but if once I saw the relation of sign upon sign
I'd be another

And the other through me would yelp in a frenzy

To know this body infested with otherness,

to swallow you whole and then spit in your face,

to know what you make in your room when you
imagine someone is watching -

the truth of what's there is ungraspable, and I feel
I don't know there beside you