Zara, Thusly

Fast casual super mediocrity:
The fire dog's bow wows the crowd
While the rope dancer puts Slothrop out 
Of his misery and Steeply promises
That good sleep makes better freedom.

Shtrum could have been Alyosha's grandson,
As god's great guilt is the hangover
That bugs every teetotaling philosopher.

Look away from the minds whose
Refractions form a cannon, shot into
Heads by narrator, by iron, by shaken
Biblical glossaries, whose desires drool
At the edge of K's ambiguous survey.

The new style comes quick and dies its
Wasteful death at the many hands of
A threadbare imagination, such is the
Group norm in our glittering liking palace.

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