“An X or a Y?” I don’t tell, don’t ask;
Not caring much about which has the task
Of framing the rest. It’s what else is there -
The lie of the mind ‘neath its visual lair.
Should we locate the switch;
Does it start in the brain?
With a chemical cocktail to drug us insane.
Inelegant patterns, from (im)proper classes,
Don’t fully equate to life’s fumbling passes.
A borderless love with a lack of distinction
Maybe scheme of the future (or doomed to extinction).
It is rather odd how most language pretends
To some sexualized vision of how all sense ends.
Whatever. Are you the type that berates
A personal past ‘cos it double-X rates?
It might be part genes. Did mine go askew
If I care who you are more that how we might
Discuss epistemology?
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