This side of film music

Can names simple mask, simple names in books, stacked, read thirty years ago, on days end of television’s lazy verb attach a tautological self, attached without lacquered dust and altered facts name a simple name?

Can distortion, line and half bodies tell of precarious repetitive days end, end on in retreat on waters shore, not be drawn in retreat?

Can the mind in architectural premeditation, rather than correspondence put rendering, put memory, properly sanctioned oblivion, times dumbness, prolonging itself in fashion, enamored with remapping sanction publishable lies and false wars, be anything but great works of death or worse linguistic laughing turbulence?


Can murder lay in the intimacy of days heat be more than fading figures slow dubious signs of number testing?

Shall it always be necessary to compete with our own personal confession of fraud, reproducing a reproductive veil to the senses?

San we in this thick cloudy liquid, deep inside the drug, whipped up in blasphemy, spare any object without manipulation of poison in our veins?