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Now available for preorder:
The San Francisco Panorama.
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Oratio Moderna.BY ETHAN PAQUIN
god, bastard—you are the wrong god seated for this, our new wilderness. there is trash that appears friendlier than thou. some neon accusations—"Hoagies" and "Live Strippers" and "Oil-in-a-Minute"—what is this skyline, what is the _______. here in this miniature skyline there are shades of smoky musk. do tell all the minions of the flesh—strippers, pornographers, painters—to be seated and await the sermon. they will as neon tubes be jolted to awakening. no more trashy thoughts. yes, you, my dear god, trash- remover in the sky, lord of sky and circle and line and my best teacher, beam revelatory neon- bright awareness. all theology is so much musculature, flex'd on the weak or wicked, supposedly. sit, will you? listen—like water—that which strips away the _______ to a bareness. strippers got it right: remove the rhinestones, that trash (makeup, bras, ad inf.). all the johns seated in the front row wear hats resembling the skyline of Buffalo. they are, yes, intoxicated by muscatel and various human whiffs. look at all the neon reminding us of how real it is, that goddamned neon— ungodly invention, luring us in. all the strippers got us hooked on their new breast versions. muscatel never tasted so good, realer than psalmery. trashed, one can saunter through a really tiny kitten's skyline when hammered—gin, varied theocracies, etc. seated at the podium, one can say "bitch-ass trick"; seated at the podium, one can boom a voice distinct as neon and farther and wider than any damned skyline known to nobody but those in touch—strippers, minions of "hellish agency," professors, Eurotrash, all knowledgeable on their coke and shiny muscatel; seated 'neath a neon skyline, bleach'd strippers and sluts and hardy priests, all cheap, all get trashed on cheap and heady and varied, all heady, muscatels.
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