Contrary to a lot of illusions and a super sudden astral earth rotten with its own bloom, everything was coming to a beginning like rumors and nurses
The euphoria among us was so much like war, we thought and fucked like prisoners:
certain blacks, do what they wanna; certain blacks groove on love
so many bruises proven on the roman memory, red bone, crisp blue sun, yellow lemming marching out of the grand area, numb southern girl marching away from the cliff, wide pink curlers in her hair, holding an ice cream cone, wearing her man's starter jacket/it doesn't get much better, it takes a genius to not see it, how there's a standard procedure for when one of our favorite dictators gets into trouble, send him out to pasture in black english, the club, the so fast deliverance headquarters, and three bitches later --what he called them in his radiance-- you're his favorite song again as he stumbles in blowing america the beautiful on the trumpet rescued from the pawn shop and you stand up in bed and dance like a statue until it's a new sky all through the wall glimmering like always past the dusty hotel blinds. I forget how everything is beautiful like a rescue mission and the man you love standing still under the glare of his regret for getting free
