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Given that Clifton Drive runs at a right angle… To the Hall… There’s every chance… That the Cliftons once lived there… But why omit that fact from the written record?… Why so obviously badly transliterate… What became a classic… Anyway?… The mysteries… Are everywhere… When once one starts to look… Our love has gone… To the ends… Of the earth… To die in the silence… Of the truth… The truth is an endless… Death agony… The truth is death… You have to choose… Death… Or lies… All will pass… The walls… And the streets will dissolve… And all our rooms… Will be overgrown… With leaf.
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Sagan’s pale-blue speck… Suspended in its very own sun-beam… Brings up… Other possibilities… For our dark… Lonely sojourn… In the backwaters… Of the universe… We are… As a species… Such a hazard… To both ourselves… And all other species… That the cosmos… Could not risk allowing us too close… To the rest of the beings… That inhabit our world… We are cast adrift… And set apart… Not because we are special… But because we are backward… And a disgrace… To sentient life… May we pity… Those unlucky enough… To share this space with us… Was there ever a time of real freedoms?
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It would appear… Not… Which makes it all the more… Sickening… To have been raised… With such spurious notions… And to have been duped… Into believing… That our leaders… Believed what we believed… Let’s meet up… On Summer street… With shadows… And memories… Made of Brie… Which will melt… In the heat… Eight wheels… To flatten… The turd… Said the sign… And it is true… The so called… Leaders of the free world… Which our ancestors fought so hard to protect… And preserve… All behave like turds… The reluctant sort… That bob… And float… Too lightweight… To flush… Away.
France & Vincent 