The Wastelands were free, with vibrant free sidewalks.
There walked much scarcity on the path of chalk.
There lay obscenely different folks above talk.
One dead, one high animistic Arizona palm tree,
always wondering unlike most normal seeds,
been built away by red clawed gates,
and held a similar vexing belief of nodus tollens.
Around the evocative jukebox music, feeling nostalgia,
I would remember it; it redeemed the failure of dreams,
reversed the thought of pots, its roses
bedded and murdered. After dusk, it was electric.
Spiritualized, its petals bursted like the fireworks in Monaco.
In the palace displayed a portrait of the Burning of Los Angeles,
a hell of crimson depression by God,
embodying every sublime, hippish thing.
The generation below the buckles threatened as if the bathroom
of my father. Amused Americans howled,
creating with expired paints on the road.
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