It didn't play leers.
It's mass made up the atoms of toadstools.
It could have been a wandering Roma on our mothers lap of the new zodiac.
It was carved out of the sinew of the air.
It lives in the barrels of our chests and speaks softly through broken typewriters.
It is not guilty, but only because no one points a finger.
It will forever be a motor-mouth vulgarian screaming theater in a crowded fire.
It will almost certainly serve sangritas with 'medicine' from a top hat benediction.
It is such a tool; a corn kernel in Warhol's shit.
It was and always will be the veneering's of a milk-sea lost to the madness of birds.
It...
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