You wren cocked when The Byres fluted 8 Miles High. An easy disaster, telling shift from not shift, all spun. Jimi Hendrix visitation and collapse, dead pool for Jimmy Page. Buffets cannot preclude the urgency of les fleurs, tamper with tree tips. Twelve strings of a gesture guitar, a backwards merriment with David Crosby set to slop over, the quick and easy way to learn. Raga got together. John Lennon shot a mimic in Central Park, history, plastic things, a blot on the ‘scutcheon. “Your lions are fighting with chairs.”
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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