Tripping in its atmosphere of psychedelic (or is it post-punk?)
Our shadows may not quite define its genre;
But what does the future know of this, in its aesthetic?
Or the stylized, for that matter, no less than hallucination, as she says.
This is a requiem told in silver (or is it populist gold?);
You know — a little arty this combination;
Which is to say it remains, in her point of view,
An epithalamion about the present crap.
an opera___I heard today___is this
promiscuous sleeplessness___so very___you
the problem___is that___the very image of
baroque___is___senseless___to our understanding
in fact___my luster___and___your warmth
are nothing___but___a specter___sallying
if all my___skittish softness___are so much___about
calling___and___returning
my very___pitiful wilderness___ruins your___favorite dish
that___very distance___afar___my forgetfulness
is___just this___problematic___sin___lingered
then my___gyrations___die
Indeed her walk was fast so she never cared
Every time a ghost stole the conspiracy people had
He only shared his ecstasy pills with us
More importantly we went for that radical look
It did not need the knowledge she’d hatched
Instead she helped those beings play nothingness
Finally finally their tales remained secretly
