No escape. The Screen.
Dead righteous to the unnamable blur
Infostazzi
Asphalt pulse and professional footage
The honk remains the crane
Digging out flooring from brain bonnets
Of coral, dreams of the ocean floor
Rippled with remove, addled with worm
Caravans to, from, feedback
Realm the drone, feed on and on
Feed Back.
The gong cremates the tame,
And some are the mouths of the goalie
And a set of heels. A concrete banister
To the tinkling sound.
That thudding?
Only earth, clods and clods.
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