The sun is gray. Divided, confused, I

signed up for a summer of love; the pills are 

sweet, their force takes me out of bounds,

as well as interludes on the double.



I’m Matthew McConaughey, not perfect. It’s an every

hour regimen with that living unlocked stench.

I set the controls; the active ingredients are

soon not now, don’t. First thing prithee, 



Noonish. I have a profane vocabulary,

a little nervous forced into the secondary

but I’m ecstatic I’m 19. I’ve been blocking

myself tho now it’s over. I’m all directional.



My head weighs 10 pounds.

Hold my earrings.

Note: It’s impossible to separate understatement from early programmed utterance; both are newborn in an admissible pitch. So that’s how pretending v coming close can be felt, my sovereign.

Warning: The underground minimizes special-purpose thinking within a dominant tribal i.d. or trance. The opium is waiting, for a bender. What comes next is calm to recover and / or replace each close-to-noble escape route on ahead.

— Let’s be fair, I’m not sure the partnership was an accident, joining boosters of equity.
Runic, compared to language proceedings now.

It just snowballed until all frontiers on Earth were taken under one rule.

Our slogan has been restated: Bodies of formulae destroy discursive fruit until only style prevails.

(Yay..)