Before you advertise. All the fame is implied. With no fortune unseen. Sell the rights. To your blight. Time-machine. While I'm dulled by excess. And a cynic at best. My art imitates crime. Paid for by. The allies. So invest. Now I'm finding truth is a ruin. Nauseous end that nobody is pursuing. Staring into glassy eyes. Mesmerized. There's a vintage thirst returning. But I'm sheltered by my channel-surfing. Every famine virtual. Retrovertigo. A tribute to false memories. With conviction. Cheap imitation. Is it fashion or disease?. Post-ironic. Remains a mouth to feed. Sell the rights. To your blight. And you'll eat. See the vintage robot wearied. Then awakened by revision theories. Every famine virtual. Retrovertigo