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this is the lost generation, the end of the century, the empty vessel at the end of Creation & this is their song,
Hollow hearts & singing broken guitars the highest heater core of spirituality, & remember one thing:
when that dinosaurus lifts his old Augean stomache, & lets the pale & putrid moonlight of tomorrow seep out, they will find us there, sprawled in the alleyways of possible ecstasy,
the hopeless giants, the end, the lost tribes of crazed Indian poets, sprawled on the shores of the poisoned Hudson, vomiting words onto paper, saying it & saying nothing:
that Zero is a riot, my friend, that Zero is a rockin’ good way to die.
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