During the hourly wake of the city's mourners,
I escaped
to where none of us dared venture,
with the gynandromorphophile's long shadow
over my shoulder,
I escaped
to where no other nectar but yours—the XY-code's,
was harvested by the drones…
We always found ourselves in Magdalena, a quaint, abandoned town nestled far in the western reaches, Lya and I, as we ventured into the Spree. I didn’t know why. And I had never really thought about it. Until now…
In the neon-lit sprawl of tomorrow, I'll hoist
the milky-white rose
of synthetic essence—its fragrant code will weave
through the data stream, perfuming
the holonight's
Pro-Rata enthymeme
with sweet binary echoes of virtual "Qui Vive."
Here, I'm free
and will always be
until the day
I no longer remember the setting sun
before the night
when you and I made love
without bodies
for the first time.
The essence of a fictive, chosen, or voluntary kinship is rooted in a profound sense of connection. This connection isn't always immediately recognized or mutual, but it's never entirely unfamiliar or one-sided...
"I'm a GAMP, and it's not a writer's cramp that makes me wanna be amp about it—I'm a straight champ who don't need a Virgin Mary bigot or a lick-spigot vamp to question my mastodon feed, or my literary, noumenon handstamp."—Max R. J. Ovbi