An anxious young red head holds the telephone... It cost us what
we’re worth. We are what the market bears. We’re excess and ism. I can’t call
myself one of us. Call me occupant, call me off, pale landlord, one of the gully
people. Ohh... Alright... says Roy Lichtenstein through the medium.
When did the barricades go down? What did it cost to become Byzantium?
March is a half lie by Heraclitus, mud stuck, the same becoming, the same global
financial über alles abides. Winter was an inhuman grammar of the discrete,
heedless hunt and peck, delete. It was walking on the liquid nitrogen skin
of Saturn. The new boozy atmosphere scares me with its duende. In it I
would be bourgeoisie, a secretly weeping girl dressed in her sister’s things.
The dust. The remains. The proof. The groove. The freight. The ambassador
of one or another. Did it unfold the lie or expose the evening? Was it a mesh?
A mouth? A woo? Whose? Selectively closed, close, the source, the sex, murder,
a piece of cake. Only connect. Ping, she said. The noise of the two machines in vacant
ecstasy. I thought the source a single gush, a synonym, a single rain, a single hush.
When all the fallen were assembled and Moloch, the furious, wants war
and war’s a longing, who doesn’t want revenge, who wants to be a slave
to rage and smell the noxious odors of the blest. So low thought best thought,
who cares what it costs—Operation Cobra Anger bluster thunder death blow—
could we ransom a child with her beautiful shoulders? Or take it easy, peaceful, slow.