San Francisco, San Francisco

You seem, even in this new stage, to me,
to be a beautiful troll
with a case of the clap and an
irreplaceable groove of
melancholic masks rotating through a gyroscope of energy
that is high, but clean too.
Philosophical lenses that roll in like a southern, summer rain, running at the horizon
with intent direction, are inspired by a hand that seems divine.
The beauty of this shit-stained rose lurks behind, in front, all around in the shadows, and its beauty is haunted.
The voices of dancing marrionets from another time reverberate off the polished marble
building of old near the gray ghost lit up at night from the ancient titaness phoebe's hand in eternity.
These visions are pervasive under her aura, and her wonderland of vile, poetic love expressed in dark alleys and low lit rooms inspires in me and ability to appreciate
all the splendor of the night and her ghastly minions.
I must shake the old ideas of conformity, ie lust, jealousy, complacency, passivity, in order to experience an energy of 1,000,000,000,000 watts that is teeming beneath my feet.