The head is sore at all this living
Grinding itself to no purpose:
The condition is unchanged, a slow
Mend of some faculties as
Others fall further into tatters

Do you remember what you were sent to say
Or do? Do you still retain that silent word
You are? I think
Not. I think it's all lost
The soundtracks shredded, the
Visiontrack lost, only
Timecode left
An unfaltering pulse
Like blood or water
The strong ecstatic beats
Of your son's music.



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