underwear dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol
and cock and endless balls, lightning in the darkness under the
tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology, who scribbled all
night rocking and rolling in the yellow morning were stanzas of I'm
with you in Rockland where you must feel very strange where you've
murdered your twelve secretaries I'm with you in Rockland where we are
great writers on the