Condensed

There's always a promise of rebirth
for a plastic temple,
   the soft self repaired and dominant.

Y.O.L.O., I'll make it one hell of a perfect fucking time.
The sickness is newness
 like muscle milk for a deceased baby,
a candy piper on his bib,
 music lays on the ground unheavy with long legs, tangled laurels upon the spine, hair of reprisal,
  a golden setback. I think I can love once more.