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Paul Wellstone and Lenny don't live here anymore.
Check the room down the hall where we sit as spectators watching our lives split in two.
You don't have to choose sides.
One moving through secret gardens of the glowing hours where the young lye naked with smiles of possibilities,
Blowing plums of smoke that form around the rail ways;
Exposing their genitals to the serpents of the act of losing well
I saw the photos of the night you were gone,
naked
the needle still in the mainline,
Walden dissolving into the vein.
The line was served from its connection in the bathroom,
With the furious winds of price or chance.
Passion taken form
The burning snake that turns back on itself.
This was the baptism of a Jew in death
Strange saint of the wasteland of trails and clubs of canceled voices.
Comedy is the most dangerous game,
Staying just out of the reach of the creeping fingers of the commission.
The senses expanding beyond control roaring while feeling the sting of the prophets curse,
To stand before the lifeless sea of crustacian's eyes which doesn't match the laughter of connected mouths with disconnected cerography.
Even the blue flame sanctuary of opium can't dissolve the images of a country that turned back on itself.
This is the crime of the on going movie of dead actors and the scripts that have given form to the Manhattan Project with blue flame vision of sterile landscapes.
With the game of risk at its center.
The horrors of feeling the pleasures of the loins to the heart to the bottle to the eye which acts as a witness to a vicious world in a feeding frenzy.
Laughter is that which combines all minds to one mind peeling back the curtains exposing the last hints of drug ghosts who remain just out of focus
Like wax mannequins in a sex museum in under developed film.
This is the politics of laughter,
The art to feel the embrace of wanting flesh or
To be shit out in crude Moloch consumption in operations as enemy of the state.

And you,
Wellstone
Were the debt to the devils of politics own flesh over due,
Where the smooth hand of negotiations could not pass.
Your idol jaw in the winter ether dissolves into lunatic time of politics,
The game of risk with insect simplicity.
The laws of politics
When you lie,
Lie big
When you steal.
Steel big.
No sense drowning in shallow waters,
Back room deals,
Writing and rewriting the scripts with Dota Dota confusion.
The film of the on going movie became brittle as pressed butterfly wings,
And snapped.
Winter snow,
Grey night pays homage to the angle whose wings shattered in stained glass fashion
As the mind turned back on itself in blue silence.
The game of power becomes muted reason
Pale attempts in insect instinct.
But the silent fingers of death's blue flame has cast you to
Savage shores of Babylon where iridescent murders
Making ancient deals in back rooms
I know the fruit of your canceled voice still rots on the vines in the garden of the Pax-God whose control comes in the form of bank notes and virtual transactions.
But I wonder what line to take to reach you at the final station.

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