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This or that, is all it is about , it’s all about time just you wait, and and you listen for it. That will be the signal for the rebirth.

This or that, this is a nasty dirty town.

No longer can you tell the awful smog from the clouds.

It’s not that there has ever been any real concern here. It is just the nasty nasty dialing 911 for non-existent air traffic control. It’s just the nasty watching a replay of Nagasaki nightmare. The Nag Nag Nag nightmare revisited on the delayed replay of the news at ten.

Pick your poison and perform for me.

 

Monkey boy disguised as the Mary Mary unused.

Emerge from the protoplasm of time. Crawl out of that Trotsky pole hole pain in the neck.

There are no laws when wealth creates the ghetto.

There is no crime greater than envy. History is the atrocities flapping on broken open reels.

All the politicians have grown fat and dreary. So pick your poison and perform your dance divine for me. Fresh decay of the day. A decadent decay of the decent descending into the abyss of repressed desire…contradiction! Dive on into the muck and fuck baby.

 

Waiting for the ball to drop.

Writs from the command line. Wake walk to my old Frazier and Atlantic ave. studio turn televised television bar for the west end television viewing set. Myopic. No vision. Evisceration is it’s own reward. Do ya see what I’m saying?

Need a patron to eliminate the work of this dirty nasty town. West end high noon westerns flicker on the big screen. There is no time to mourn the modern atrocities. Just wait for it. Blow back for the five six and ten.

 

Sitting atop of the world views watching the fanned flames of intrigue. Higher and higher grow the voices of the just adequate and condemned repeatedly ignored by the privileged political prostitutes of match point penchants just waiting for the writ to drop. Lead weight dead weight, make a big splash.

 

Here you can smell the decline. That rot that corrupts the internal, the morals crumble like the terracotta displays of the punk turned lawyer.

A 5 o’clock pop tart looking for a little midnight madness. Obliteration has it’s own rewards. Point match point for the Mary Mary of the West end white whine and cheese set .

Drop waiting for the ball to .

Reconcile the retribution. Left in the dirty syringe filled stairs, piss and puke stained broken forgotten memories re-made as living celluloid.

Shine on celluloid dreams that flicker in the back. Rock out to that heavy forgotten beatnik hallucination. Recreated, dissociated. Back lighting integrates the hallucination playbills, a handbill, a sump pump.

A two plus two too many fucked up prophets of death.

 

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