before a famous contraction

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topping off the edge of

the universe, you’ve developed space

and blackness, echoing into piano

keys and lightening bolts.  My sound forms in

a young mind from votkinsk.  he is

throwing

tin across the school yard, a  fortune teller

brings the sleaves on his coat

close to her heart.  She asks him to

fix the material.  His eyes roll back,

red, lightening, sand, crying while flying. blue,

noise, noise, noise, smoke.  There isn’t much

future for him, only mixture of past and eternity.

my movie is a protest record

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a fellow turns his head slightly

and then becomes king.  a vote for his

victory is worth as much as

a dollar for his campaign.  a prince drinks

a coffee, a princess checks her phone.  The

sailors find their way to vietnam.  Life

is spared, life is spilled.  a ball spins over top

of the

goalkeepers head.  it’s painted.  it’s plunging.

a nobleman with a foot and a queen in

a moment of weakness, they’ve seen each other’s

eyes and the world will soon end, atop the

green splashed lawn.

ra ra rand

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the brother and sister walk into

the doors of their super fast car.

They drive in the opposite direction of

the holocaust and ask for directions

along the way, they inquire about the

whereabouts of the world’s end, of the

isle of lesbos.  there are thousands of

necrophiliacs striding around the beaches, lovely

women, painted like

giacondas.

they’ve shut down, they’ve all shut themselves down.

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its winter and you,ve beeen

eating too much pizza.   there is a

sunny day coming soon, but

you feel sick today, you needn’t wait

for the morning and not enough oxygen in your brain

when the light will reflect off the slick streets

and then give you a massive headache.  ‘It’s an

elegant way to finish the song.  I like it when

you sound like that.’

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the sight at the end of the

tunnel was grey, but lighted

with amber.  a man took out a

helmet and walked to the shipyard.

his friends with there, but none of them

remembered what kind of shape

his motorbike was and they

weren’t sure if he even needed a

helmet.  the ships began to

burn when the robber set

them on fire, the smoke covered

the slight moon, the noise drowned

out the seagulls.

beaten steel made into glasses

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you have paper flowers

and edison bulbs.  The concrete around

where you’ve woken is damp and the

wood is dried, like its been drifting in

the sea.  written on the pedals made of

paper are histories of a

robot people, steel people, real people.

your mother asks you if

you’ll go to the golf tournament, she wants

you to win, for the future to

be better than the past.    “paint on the

pavement, honey in the

highlife.”