The world is too fucking with us,
its crude commode cannot contain us.
Had we sought to dim it
our hearts like wands could will it
and replace it with an imitation —
scrupulous, exact, but happier,
born out of wedlock, gridlock, and love,
a beautiful bastard congested with itself.

The world is too fucking with us.
Parturient, its contours blown to shivers,
condensing its guts into
          A stucco room without a picture
hanging, a womb-tomb of glaring gloom
Its furniture upholstered by a ruse:
tactile and threaded through,
See the physical world reveal its shame.

The world is too fucking with us,
though its rutting cannot harm us,
a figure in the mind is worth two in our midst;
The world is not enough.
Since we’ve already given over to extraterrestrial games
let’s leave it where it lies
in a confetti of sighs or a heap of dreams —
The world is too fucking with us.