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Back into the body all the lightning goes
back into the body. Up through the crown
of the skull and round again like the Whip-It. . .
Vegetable fuchsia but faded, gilt
gone bad from its season in Hell. Plucked up
with dirt on its cheek, petrified
as a rose shut. . .
Let me had been
the star watching that night
the rain battering the building
like a child yelling More!
Music and fascism fifty years after Adorno
Reject the focus-grouped inanity of corporate Democrats
What makes a free design program radical?