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I don’t, or not always. It’s not that it has always been that way.
Over there; that’s where it all started, flying that freak punk flag; the spiky hair of David. An invented extravert with nods to a fascination with Egyptian archaeology.
Anthropologic excuses.

So far. So far away in a crap and espresso bar. Looks jazz in a sterile non-smoking kinda way. Plays Abba; kinda figures, kinda sucks. Dumb it down to draw a crowd and all the world becomes a stage…So what is a scribbler do? Revolving revolts around the earth, it’s the stage and we are the actors…perform for me. There ain”t no Finnigan’s wake on the south Dublin streets. It’s the dirty south near Stephan’s Moor.

The great survivor of broadcast banalities. They think they are the socialites. Crap and coffee. The Christian and cruller crowd discussing declarations of a book. Hardline. No congress in cars, pages turned for the six hundred and sixty million. The books is finished, start over in case the point was missed. The Altitude of the attitude. Representative and condescending. A betrayed dream of trust and redemption.

Top of the World views. On display the sacred and violent profane.

Sailing on cartel amphetamine blue seas. Desolation angels high on the Vicodin life. The hillbilly heroine Martyred for the great Atlantic to see.
Pedestal pastoral; from a relaxed vantage point. What would Mary Mary say, what would she do baby blue sailing on amphetamine seas.
Political procrastination’s resulting in a sly nights moon casting shadows in the nicotine stained white room, love in the late night shadow.
The Vicodin high life of desecrated desolation. The walls come tumbling down. Border-less boundaries. Border-less angelic boundaries changing on a whim…stepped out onto a limb.
Old crap and coffee. Looking at photographs of the dead transferred, digitized and cleaned up. Sleaze sides removed. Obsessive; love of punk groups gone cut up reorganised with a semblance of serenity and fake fancy.
The sunlight burns holes in the nights eye.
Hot jazz Vicodin lights flash to the sounds of Sonny Rollins on the Deir al-bahari mesa. 1974 75 …code …fly the freak flag before the stupid take over. Exterminate the artists writer dreamers. A mass grave for creativity covered up with dogma as a reality. Took the wrong blue pill.
We all live too long in a stupor, it is all dark , it’s light but like a black hole it sucks in and envelopes all. The path of least resistance in the path of no return.

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