10x10 print booklet with fully annotated lyrics, original prose, photos, and more.
ships out within 1 day
edition of 100
Purchasable with gift card
$5USDor more
lyrics
My old man was a doctor,
his allegiance to the blood.
Sowed the nettle to his own tomb
and his money made it like Mesud.
Westering, a kind of scoutlaw—
middle west by middle road—
held a Whole Earth in his right hand
and there, to his left, a Barbary Coast.
Hear that sound?
Drop City noise.
All around, Drop City noise.
Can’t you hear?
Drop City noise.
All around, called out at last.
Westward course of coronation,
riding west of Capernaum,
to Canaan or Colorado,
reading Cybernetics like the
psalms.
Fingers cursed to type in line
from
fingering the Rosary.
In a church they coded Verbum,
never leafing thru St. Augustine.
Hear that sound?
Drop City noise.
All around, Drop City noise.
Can’t you hear?
Drop City noise.
All around, called out at last.
Bourgeois bladders
can’t stand the ciders—
pissing past the past.
I was wary, you went across that
line.
No one is sacred.
Six-Day scary, commentary,
burning like Sinai—oh!
And Horus, playing us out.
Here the new-old cop Penutian,
steal the sacred in Cheyenne,
all for live-in mausoleums
for the saintly Stanford man.
Hear that sound?
Drop City noise.
All around, Drop City noise
Can’t you hear?
Drop City noise
Hear that sound called out at
last.
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