Sugar Dada

Go home. It's never what you think it is,

The kiss, the diamond, the slamdance pulse in the wrist.

Nothing is true, my dear, not even this

Rumor of passion you'll doubtless insist

On perceiving in my glance. Please just

Go. Home is never what you think it is.

Meaning lies in meaning's absence. The mist

Is always almost just about to lift.

Nothing is truer. Dear, not even this

Candle can explain its searing twist

Of flame mounted on cool amethyst.

Go on home—not where you think it is,

But where you would expect its comfort least,

In still-black stars our century will miss

Seeing. Nothingness is not as true as this

Faith we grind up with denial: grist

To the midnight mill; morning's catalyst.

Come, let's go home, wherever you think it is.

Nothing is true, my dear. Not even this.