always at the end of the world strumming out

the past usually self-annihilation & games that made the mind click appear

more authentic cross-referenced with something

solid (kids hid a matchbook in the long grass muddled the syntax of time-capsules

gnomes looking on in their rendition of gnomic

prognostication (the broadway musical))

problems popping up to a strained dance beat & i’m over ‘surprise’

forthwith the lute strummer’s corner of destruction is

a sweet art-deco retreat we watch documentaries because all time is spare &

plentiful strumming at the same time denying the

messages issuing from our poor art (a regular lament the lack of evident attack &

decay in what’s permissible, what’s really happening)