Fame throwa pass out the gold, the diamond
watch, the last reward, all the things we had
before you sold us out and took it all.
head-borne cries from zenith sluts, astral
rites from dead-end ruts.
these kids are sick-end wars
"one of the nation's spies.
one of our first recruits.
click with her leather thighs
one of our first recruits."
how can you know? in the distance lies
a grower, nee rode off, king fame throwa
son of groupie, red-worn sexan: spent his
cash convincing us that the desert was
a starscape and sold our lives for a
satellite so we could cry:
"naked, naked foul" (sic)