Sag my corpse in 32 degree weather through the city of God where paraplegics dream of running. “Oh Rhodesian mercenary,” humble my soul again like in C(hi)(ca)ongo. But remember The revolution starts on my mama’s bed at half past six.
So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind. But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut; I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres that tomorrow never happened.
He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods— whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory— the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund— sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers who preyed to the city of God for bread