Loki sits under rain on the roof
shapeshifting into pop songs,
and trying to write another one
feeling so special
as each song becomes briefly everything
and it's crushing, isn't it
all these better worlds of worlds
the metamorphizing tingle
of countless possibility
liquid crystals mingling
so apocalyptic in their clarity
how can they mean anything?
this record is scratched
where the magic should be earned,
and everything ages
but only in a disposable world
does that mean you get a new one
we need to repair culture
before it's too late; it's too late,
what we need is salvage.
for this cage is not neoteny
the cage is chrononormativity,
growing from waldorf fairy
into porcelain is not an option:
childhood's exclusivity
has been hidden by sobriety
now we have to grow our freedoms
to make that feeling like you're full of stars
into something real; we have to grow
our privilege into freedom.