The earth throws against the sky these solitary sovereigns, royal palms, huts, tom-tom tom-toms, my what-kind uncle-who-are-you-calling-a- In a regime/ everything is missing but
The calm of common language you gimme, at least there's this/ scarecrow destiny on the outskirts of what we do--What we imagine ourselves saying we would do if Stokely Carmichael
was listening. Groove merchant. The density of how close we come to dancing, thinking, before abandoning the idea 'cause we trust it so far. Like a boss keen on sobbing to himself in the dark, which is the fountain of youth until the brand catches, trademarks like loose fists. I'm sure of the word hunt, fountain, youth is the button they confuse amounts of in between land and wand and epistrophy. They offer buttons for/ I keep peering into the darting echo of your hope for the conversation on earth, and a backwards narrowing occurs like lanes and lanes of muffled pop songs go up in fortress, and the ashes and shuttles land in our cars on the way to work. Where should we go instead?
The earth throws against the sky her solitary sovereigns...
listen. It's a commercial for the pharmacy again. Sermon. Carnal sermon. Repair tastes like failure. How come. Balloons and candles, unless there are cellos going into the iconscope and what we did in there was confidential, and confidence is emptiness, then empire, they warned, gulp by gripping gulp
The sky fidgeting with its swords is you is the rain, I think, you're drinking again, my love and propaganda, I hear a bell, I feel a bell thinking in me
