Resurgence
Hey, hey, 'tis the day we can't be used to words like flummoxed,
A coding at which no denying you will strike.
It seems to itself its history's never quite undone enough to find settlements.
It feels it needs something from us it can't quite possibly guide us to place.
Hey, hey, airplanes on your way. Not to be at your safety, but on you beat.
Hey, hey, this song, for your birthday. We'd be no more sorrier than you.
I begin to manage why it's going itself in a direction he can't guide.
I flashback my way to a syntax they cannot but loathe. Unbearably banal, our looking!
Hey, hey, there will be no more, no more for us left to say!
A coding at which no denying you will strike.
It seems to itself its history's never quite undone enough to find settlements.
It feels it needs something from us it can't quite possibly guide us to place.
Hey, hey, airplanes on your way. Not to be at your safety, but on you beat.
Hey, hey, this song, for your birthday. We'd be no more sorrier than you.
I begin to manage why it's going itself in a direction he can't guide.
I flashback my way to a syntax they cannot but loathe. Unbearably banal, our looking!
Hey, hey, there will be no more, no more for us left to say!
Labels: David Foster Wallace, netherland, poetry, postmodernism, poststructuralism, pretense
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