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There is this
This is a one ton two step in three quarter time.
 A Stepford family reunion.
Sartre’s self-taught man watching from the towers bell room as a cargo van comes crashing through.
Shattered;
stained glass pain of the Magdalene disintegrating under rubber and stone.
Hammers crash down on nails while serenity crumbles under foot…
a voice from the bell-tower booms …room service please – the condemned poet commands.
Existentialist…self-taught…Sartre. Imaginary and Nausea rises up to the congressional steps…the bile that gathers momentum…ejected and still the fat lady sings … the one ton two step of the ugly beast; rising out from the bile created by the common …man. Stuck in the great gaping maw – a sickly showing of rotting fibre slowly collapsing in on itself only to be reborn like a retarded phoenix from campfire ashes of books burned in a Westborough tribute.
Dockside… tributes pile up with a drunken fervor.  Momentum slows and grows again with resumption of the next load.
Heard in the distance… Battle cry of the 14th Bud light brigade. A bottle battle left once again to relapse in to aspirin repose.
Flea bitten – rises for the long walk. Mary Mary; the pampered, in comparison. Explosions of light in a mid-morning haze – battle cry of the scratch and winners – never again.
 To get to where you are going you must go half way there and then start again. See the Flag? Start.
Trouble spots filled with spitting yobs…disgraced with no incentive. Colour blind in sights…looking through crosshairs with attitudes. To paraphrase Bobby… hand signals for the blind. A tetrad of trouble in these bored teenager times…
     Vacant souls walk Desolation Avenue.
Summers heat brings them out of the woodwork scurrying like cockroaches grown fat on winter’s sugar…to the streets in a vulgar glory.
Mobius waves
                       Rodelius plays   
                Cluster fucks        
                        In Faust’s brave Neu world.

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