magic is a real thing… it has no bones but
all the moons in a nebulous symmetry.
we swim in things we can’t correct.
and yet, there lies the bloom of our -
Infinite Jest.

magic is a real thing… sleeping on the floor
with the cold sparkles and marsh marionettes
glowing in the farthest thing from practically Nothing.
Like a Boss.

we go where the real things **** us and return with fresh hells
to feather our nested resurrections in the face of a Comedy.
so magic is a real thing, sleeping with Strangers
an opulent soliloquy of unexpected
surrenders.

magic is a real thing… but the ***** of our Narcissus
daunts the pavillions of our introspection. our numerous harmonies.
so real we had habits.
And that is.