I saw Abbie Hoffman’s ghost in the distance,
We got Saul Williams keeping up the resistance.
And punk rock and blues music keep dying,
We keep buying
I am a pleurisy of noise, a loathsome crackle of fits and starts berating chondral grinding, shifting like painted grass in the red tide eddies.
Canadians may seem confused in their frigid decibels ringing cantons with finger peals, but what cannot be compressed into a mitred function of the heart is not worth the indignation of static variance, inaccessible assurity.
Lifelong safety is a hypocampal contagion driving the flex from our limb as we're pressed across the crux; for, wheresoever the golden diary lies the loss is no more than a catered fish-tea out of scale.
I won't panic. Cannot dismiss. Will retain to discover. And in this somesuch nonsense the plasma feeling will careen, and I'll seal the fission, fuel the schism of my tongue before the mull cracks away.
So all along the dragon spine, the tide might sieve some strife from cold, organic, pyrectic calf. The crunch of brittle sandalwood and sage...
Your children are enrolled in polyadenylation, a cortico-triumph of anti-humanism breathing out in the lead-knife compassion, a traditional enumeration of enucleated, biblic hell. Why so inoriginal, why such conflagrational pews reserved? Like some bulbously elite, thumb-narial dysintelligensia por bourgeois edification we swim, a grey harried vote for the sun from some lunar spirochetic derision.