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(after Allen Ginsberg)
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by gravity,
starving, hysterical, quantum,
dragging themselves through the neon streets at dawn
looking for an angry answer,
angel-headed physicists bent over chalkboard abysses,
who scribbled equations in the margins of reality,
who measured the weight of thought in collapsing wavefunctions,
who vanished into the static between universes, screaming—
What leaks through? What cracks in the mirror?
who burned their fingers on event horizons,
who whispered to black holes and heard their own voices echo back,
who plotted the coordinates of God in the static of cosmic microwave background,
who prayed to the void and felt it praying back—
Who shaped whom? Who dreamed whom?
who clutched at spacetime like a bedsheet twisted in nightmare,
who saw the singularity grinning in the pupil of every observer,
who fucked the vacuum and birthed Boltzmann brains in motel rooms,
who choked on the dust of infinite reflections—
Which is the original? Which is the shadow?
with the absolute, with the undecidable, with the unobservable,
with the dark matter humming in their bones,
with the weight of consciousness bending the geodesic,
with the gnawing suspicion that the universe is a glitch—
Who is the dreamer? Who is the dreamed?
Moloch whose eyes are event horizons!
Moloch whose mind is a self-replicating paradox!
Moloch whose gravity is the weight of a thousand unanswered whys!
I’m with you in the dark mirror,
where light bends backward into its own question,
where every thought is a gravity well,
where we are both the collapse and the observer—
We are the leak. We are the crack.
The universe is not what it seems.
The universe is exactly what it seems.
The universe is a scream trapped between two mirrors,
forever falling, forever watching itself fall.
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