Chanson / Karma and Backstage

I looked at you and realized you do not know what you're doing, up there on stage alone like a babooning heavyweight saving his blood for the next coon phase/ of confidence, like the previous, was always delusion. Slow greedy pictures of dominoes. What a sequence/ this spectacle is/ criminal I can't look away from the crime scene, that 's some of our best work, the way it all falls into tension like a painting/ slow greedy skeins of dominoes falling upright/ But if he only knew how much I hate him, he would love me too, they prayed, reluctantly, a premature labor of dual feelings compromising the duel with real blood and chorus, and can sing too? Good too, like a southern brother needle in the voice girl Tuesday good. She thought. Like a witness and acted like a judge. As testimony he muttered the pop songs you're ashamed to love, the same ones that educate us out of sync with one another, if your girl only/knew/ hurling the trouble, simple trouble into some scarce territorial hush made of custody and slow greedy pictures of dominoes falling upright. The criminalization of blackness sounds polite, right about now. We are all the great villains we ever needed and our heroes are never clean or satisfied and our pride is a dandy in furs and sambo and we how we got to be so slow greedy pictures of dominoes falling upright. Psychedelic trauma, you promised the lights on the mirror wouldn't flicker and constrict round showtime, that we weren't the same performers from 50 years ago, our fathers and widowed mothers, chanting new songs in the old forms, the statuesque guts of old-fashioned music boxes spinning on the axis of our framed innocence, making it look easy.