A spacite picture of the atonal tomorrow

Here it lopes along bluesily, brackets an ancient kind of youth we romanticize like a crush on shadow and primal euphoria and who will survive enlightenment (stubbly shore), who will float on the hinge of her urgency like a runaway bride (again) and not wear white to the double world and not act right at the awards ceremony, what does it mean, not a clean chivalrous might have been again, not a share locked into a crop I wear on my hot hot body, rip away in the heat of it—your father's memory of the end of the world is too much like now and then I hear it lope along bluesily looking for a word to tilt toward suffering and then away again. Eros is all I know of death and then awakening, our great parody of transit, a re-place ment, mentida bent to Ba. a theater wet with mourners of the past in a kind of stable transit that makes them raggedy and bland/modern, begins to be exactly what drives me to happen (against them), what drives me to be new and happening now and then. I woke up from another planned dream, satisfied, and it felt like a problem, a trauma even, traumatic satisfaction/ I love you. Yeah.