Conversations on Sand (from Quarkboy)

I have no hypothesis
For the origins of mass
Though life may just be
The multiplication of cell division
Over the will to live.

We ponder the shape of the universe
Saddle,
Coned,
Reverse Cowgirl.
Thrash out proposed constants
Explode our theories
Discuss the malleability of
Soul
Damn it all to heaven.

We sought desolation in beauty and
Beauty in desolation

You remind me of the time of singularity
When air flowed freely
And our lives complied with all the known laws.
I remind you of a time when you sang pretty songs
To the ‘candyman’
Traded your faith for trumpets and trinkets
An early compromise
Before we could understand
‘Visceral’

So bury the dead under driftwood
Tie it off with bladderack
Leave it to the tides.

A piece of Byron died on these sands
He sang of dead dogs and shipwrecks

This is no place for resurrections.