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8/23/2005

essay : #044 On The Wings of ipods



c.William S.Turchyn II

Breathtaking.
This!

Hovering above
The fringes.
Of a city.
In recovery.

So quiet.
So peaceful.
For now...


* *

They shot.
Hunter's ashes.
Deep.
Into.
The.
Great Beyond.
Stylish fucker.
That he was.

Pulverized.
They say.
Into fine particles.
Shot from a cannon.
A Generation of Swine.
Just ejaculated.
All over the
Goddamn place.

* *

Seems sometimes.
Like we forget.
How to breathe.
Yes.
A World That Forgot How To Breathe.
I like that.
dammit.

* *

My baby says:
"I want you to write
Until your fingers bleed
..."
I say:
"Too busy.
Observing humanity, honey
..."

Falling in love.
With a sepia autumn.
Don't want to.
Keep filling in.
The blanks.
Joining the dots...

Just want to.
Climb onto.
The Wings of ipods.
And
Dream.
Of
A
Place.
Far.
Far.
Away...

# transmission ends #















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