And the ballad of time is that we are time
The idea of everything/oneness wasn't erotic enough
So we differentiate, and the repositioning is--
Rock and roll is dead, sisyphus extorts the forever in everything a different deed to rise and fall from and to and fro and form and socialism from dread and the schisms and the castes and the corruption of every reformist is nostalgia, from which I too become corrupt or a dreadfully lucky thinker feels the earth moaning and wailing and waiting for no one, and joins her, for how rare her joy, etcetera, and leans her dialects toward and toward, to never mistake talking for communication or trust an open eye with exposure/ notice: The sound is fading out, it's more like fire sounds, freedom. A funicular that is easier to hear than to see or to touch, and better than everything all at once, be your time, beating your time to you, keep being yours and time too, to possess something, give it the slowest myth you can deliver/ if tenderness is what love looks like in public, justice is what love looks like in private, to deprive of it is to give it purpose and a tempo and risk spheres for the surfaces of right/here, and it hurts and arises and perfect and alright, time is lucky to have such ballad, shine, sends, you and you overlapping/ one word only color(less) clumsy-- come see me in time, map the miles of ways we know or find out we know the difference between a pulse and a past is a derisive myth where leaders a liars and lies cannot time-- tell your story fast as a soldier hiccups in a field of flicked souls to show an era where it lies, etcetera, by that time, hurts my vinyl, and beauty hurts my vinyl, and you too, hurry, a lie does not live, a line does not live, only the two points they exist between assuming their sounds, nor sins, no sense in worrying you know something other than what you be
(in)
style
