Come Like a Messenger (round about sweetnight)

Away from what the cover calls The perverse gaze of sympathy... Buy a bike upon the business. Enact a scramble toward headlights. I am frightened by what I am willing to forget for the brightness of my will for you and for suspense and for the tender fortune of repetition and before then, remembering the benevolence against his gaze when he gave me to the carousel. I have the Polaroids to prove it, and anything else. Plastic-colt-stages, merer stages, places where the occult behaves like the everyday just to trap you, just to set you forward on the upsidedown ladder of resemblance. The repetition of it is the intelligence, you can do anything once, so spin. At least attempt to spin, at least succeed, and in succession the hidden everything panopticon returns to glance at you passing it unsympathetically passing for it, calling every passive witness a pervert is a fast way to the fountain-of-youth which has more to do with watching than indulging in water's iron curtain mirror of infinite remains. Keep a cycle upon the business. Keep a comeback spirit. Some ribbons on my wrist with balloons attached to them. Mister, you do look like a messenger when I spin, cracker jack residue on my fingers from the red white and blue I found you in, sugar rush, sugar hurry up, good enough to stand still for but not bad enough to turn into... Your message, I got it, took it to the edge of the widest circle and spread it along the perimeter until it became a rumor, even within itself there was content to recover...to strike a wheel upon the business which crosses you, which covers you, which keeps you going while it alters you, which is the cistern and which one fills it with the turnaround, turnaround, but when I turn around, you'll be gone, there's a helmet in the middle of the street so I duck vicariously, recklessly, licking the sweet nerve off your hands

'Then suddenly, the night shut like a trapdoor and a vast calm let us know we'd been sleeping'