I always thought there was this rebels
party going on somewhere, and I just had
to make it there. And I would never have to stop
rebelling against normalcy then. A party like
the torch that’s burned before and will
out burn us all, still and yet to come.
Decades long. People born there and people died.
Fuck. I had this thing all planned out. And now no
matter how South I go I know not even I can
Burn the Man of time forever.
I used to think the divinity of a Doors record was
The same thing as a Beethoven one.
Now they’ve all become catalogued,
my fingers in analog
have spoken out the order,
of history in quarters.
An alignment of stars, called critics’ whose bars
imprison their words except to
bang the same damned pot all day.
Critical poker face. I want to cut out your…
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