I’ve watched all my relationships deteriorate
After getting off-contract.
Quo-le-quoan for: I’ve sold everyone under every chestnut tree years ago.
I’ve seen you go broke.
I’ve seen your kids taken away.
I’ve seen you lose your job.

Special Agent Harris has done a lot locally for the kids.
I hate hearing that.
DEA impugnating the new generation of fuck-up,
And all my old enemies
I indicted in surrealist lands away;
Never really had the chance.

They always come back.
Well so do I.

My blood had turned to clot over 30 years ago.
My wings had been stoned and turned to bone.
In any god’s eye besides myself.
I had found myself fallen.
A saint by patronage,
And the enlightned DOGMA
Has been around at least
2, maybe 3 years.

I’ve reached every accord like it was ancient greasy-dry-bones.
Live in hell with me, and The Oracle keeps saying:
You’re gonna die in here with me, with all these fumes.
I tell you it’s not safe.
I’ll do anything for Intel.
And even now;
Gridlock rejoices in the strain of not knowing
Why people
Ever learned to love.
Truman Hunan
And I am the parable of paradox.

Dead–Soul-Walking.

Is all I’ve been.

Ancient Alchemy the doctor.
And my chi I turned to horcrux.
No fiction,
And my Welsh Witch ways
And Gray Groaloadnanadkan
Sways.

Why keep coming around?
To dismal dictator
In a mourning parasail tell me –
You don’t eat enough.

Ruby to Rosa to sitting at the 5 in Greensboro.
Cracked-out Black-American to Black-African trying to nourish:
You had no chance Sally-Jenkins-Shit; you’ve been drugged.
Skin-tone enhancements.
And the whole town chose meth-over-math.

And I only displayed in time-travel-theorem.
Every jillybuster to propagator in a portal-machine;
Your ways are fiendish and you’re gonna get Parkinson’s.

The Immortal Epileptic;
The Sacred Disease.
The Oracle hasn’t breathed since 1111.
Hand-Cobbled Grace.
I don’t fit your Race.
And my puzzle pieces had been hand-burnt by me.

Psychotropic and topographic in my GPTA.
And your programs fancy laziness and killing a Writer of Writers.
Men acting at the Globe.
I got over it long ago.
And just said – no more shows.
Read about it in the paper.
Come perusin’

Shell-left-stocking.
You will not leave my mind until I get what I want.

I want to breathe your lies in truth.
And your fears; are queers to me.
Quarks and Manifest-Destiny.

Oh, Locke.
Give it up.
I won.
You got your job back.

Put down the turntableth.
You’re making your Kingdom Look Bad.
Even in America.

Gossip-train Grapevine.
And I chose Wrath, to duel with.