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                I have found Jack Kerouac
                     at last
                where I couldn’t find him
                in the narrative shifted of
                     the road
                or the too much spoke and
                awe of the bums or the
                of mother-tied and bottle compromise
                or drunken defence of Jeeps in
                there, there he is, ballooned
                valley-high and continental
                left lonely for his piddling life
                and inexorable death in every

                                              Desolation Angels

                but I still couldn’t finish reading
                     the book





books wormhole: step
compromise wormhole: in desperation and worthless art
death wormhole: Dr Strange VII – the madness of Mordo
identity wormhole: H e a v e
life wormhole: dream 260713
loneliness wormhole: ‘blades / articulate all the lonely height / of the sky’
mother wormhole: the four whores of the apocalypse
reading wormhole: the lines are not that straight / after all
travelling wormhole: ha ha ha