that screwed metal into clouds
with percolating light hammering on our eardrums
with the thrust and torque of a thousand angry gods
come on, Pynchon, let's run out of town
let's become refugees in a distant land
where we'll take shelter from this abrasive rainfall
under leaky sheets of tarpaulin, we'll sip some free tea
as we watch the sunset from this side of a barb-wired horizon
come on, Pynchon, before it's too late
evacuate! evacuate!
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