Sir, I withdraw my ideological investment in your master plan
of concubines, whipping, hot wax, and love-lies-weeping, slain.
Thank you for your studious attention to my moral
progress in the House of Corrections. I am a
newborn soul. Now, I am taking me and my
still-intact virgin forest, despite defenestration,
away. Callow? Naïve? Game? I accept
the natural order and entropic half-life
of things, which you confuse with disdain.
I want the collected works of Jeremy Bentham.
I want a wardrobe of intimate apparel spun from
silkworms, a hot rod and a bubble gum machine.
How do I define heaven? An open field
in which you neither exist, nor reign.
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