(ballad of a bad night hating, trailed]
(from: the Loss Lieder)
i hate the panopticon
an interplea straps moneybags to hurtful
presentism is, yr locked in the nose cone
ark is to arch in a fly balls arc
hail grand fell sickening
army of the rep anti-public
media not new more non
or in medias raze
i hate the panopticon
seething is a seeding with grey
old dried out celluloser matter
set on fire across northern sea
or derive some rocket fuel as odd fool out:
shell out, for ready-to-use elucidation
or shell ‘em into submersible, toward
unwoke sub craning
indecisive system, clone goes to tickle yr fancy
held on a flat plain
i hate the panopticon,
ragging heaves it fleet to slack—
use yr card-key, list the flatted fifth
to hang at a locked room misery
slag wreck to a juncture is a line,
the plane flew in a myriad directions
over across the cheering section
a crash land cling to triple haves
glug playly
paint it over to crick
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