Oblivious by-passers lanes are forgiven of its hereness. Cunning shrewd topsy-turvy here and now are the ad-mixtures of what is to be done! Lofty ideals are born to be sold, at random hands of beggar’s lane. Beggars do survive. The meagre autonomy of delinquent is brought down as daddies curb their path. Marxism –du-papa! Nothingness of her is serious. Not slurred by our mock-heroic hands. I float the tube, the by- passed street full movements are bypassed. Jostling, who’s who of Third World gay pride. I love to be. Hanged past the Messianic futural duplicitous omnipotent social democracy. Yet the future becomes mine, through her Tierra del Fuego hours. One not of many, but, one and only. The newness astonishes with she, everywhere. I sold my left palm to the handy. Then sold the handy too. Evocative despair of junk ridden half followed cultural revolutionaries. Lofty dreams of her direct action make me more than a Troubadour. How it is that we sit on chair and think through all over the world? It is already half past twelve, new day “in-itself”, charade of the “for-itself”, to be with many, and the one, not residual but final cut, hover above us. No lampooning, the Enlightenment of the street, with posters from other world. Brilliance of the skin-tight! Love is never forlorn. Sun resides by the cloud, who is here for the Moon’s solemnity?
Future is planned through the nexus of other world. The truth producing institutions with its drug captivation, the journals of manipulation yet the political power never came out from the barrel of a gun. Life’s endeavour is to trust the assholery of Third Worldish Civilization picnic parties. Down with the flag marching Nero. Hard stuff is yet to crack! The militias from the Bolivarian Jungle sent me some cakes. I owe them nothing but one. The hard earned dreams from yesteryear, cosmic brawls and highs of codeine inertia. Limit time dissolves in future time, now! The ugly syndicate vindicated me as a wise joker. I am adept to that. My dasein of telephone reaches the Godot episode. Sam called me before. Now it is her term, while the bank of allegory is run amok by jubilant clowns and municipality officials. Who is not ignorant enough to watch the show? I am not.