in the surveillance of our story, 850 seconds perhaps, in glorified memory,
little jews open their eyes amongst the flaming sculptural spire
and the third of her name, Jerusalem, (is it him?)
(artistic was her surname)
unfortunately, her ID, consumed by torch & flame (.........)
another mourning, another brown, & soggy & tasteless fucking day
in which to despair at the state of her very purposeful Occidental ways
surrounded by fake patriotism & fourteenths & sevens & May
contrast the Marseillaise's rightful sudden death
[ violet haze ]
the saddened by the tragedy
have more to lose at stake