Sorrowfully very beautiful, beautiful and blue

the way the great men hide in the mediocre  wet with paranoia's faceted coves and the rush of nobody's fault and the line from always to always    and the gray bite of an hypnotic stone/ media wide bonafide open ritual of go:  wake me up slowly, I'm not in hurry, he mumbles from the exit glow of a particularly rhythmic dream  and then gorgeous show, but they don't space me out the way the dead do  and then first comes fame, then comes shame, and then... what comes after that? That's just an old black habit — the eyes pucker at the new-day-sun/and, some kinda oneness