The Xit is my special friend, and
knows me well,
for it lives with me, and
like a helpful pest
it fills my bed and my bath,
pours my drinks,
nips me at night
so I know I’m not alone, and
each day walks me to work
(although I, myself, actually drive).

The Xit loves me,
it tells me so every day, and
brings dead flowers and stale chocolates to show me.
Yet, it often ignores me
(there was that five months of aloneness once), or
it steals my beloved books and hides them.
It also calls me strange names,
all foreign, and all obscene.

The Xit, of course, is mad.
It hates whores, and worships them,
it loves virgins and tries to cure them,
it hates lies, but collects them,
for beauty, it says, and for
their heartless purity.
So it says.
When the sun shines the Xit dances, and
come the rains it cries, and
still dances.

Forget finding the Xit,
for it finds you.
It will spurn most of us in life, yet
may seek you in your coffin,
where there’s no escape
(I’m promised such a visit,
though I don’t know why)

The Xit is
black and bright,
a blank page full of color,
a rose growing in the ocean.
If you can see the Xit, you’re blind,
hear it, you’re deaf,
touch it, you’re dead.

There’s no reason for the Xit, and
possibly the only one less sane than the Xit –
is you.

(Be thankful, those more sane are unsavable.)

NOTE: If the Xit makes sense to you, you don’t understand it.



Editor’s Corner


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