Romano Prodi calls

Like some demonic, destructive suction tube which fewer Cameros go into, breaking law's door as a thistle keels over at a bee's touch, this permit to undo the military-industrial complex gone to bed in the shaft of emergency supply, a long way from home to bang rocket. And a true revolution of values looks like mortgage, otherwise account held over history in the ample youth given to uprising, a request to move loudly, immunized, a token to security among people with the headache of self-knowledge together killing expense and negligent time-share, riding up to the station

which veers past the

gates of an arbiter, one who holds opulent marauding of an unset Société Générale, an heir to a legacy of dignity and worth, who would not budge amidst such an axle? Rather listen to this steeled grave exercise of power over roto-relief's constant verbiage, tackling the wall beyond which waits signal market, cigarettes and cement, goats at rising cost. What goat is worth national orphanage? Those veterans of creative suffering come down from the Hyatt, dripping with economic stimulus and culture, baring the desert home nonetheless dissident, jamming the crowd that strategy gifts almost an evening. To skin George Bush alive as real as the ritz, as scalpel lifts eye from its spiderhole relaxing counter-intelligence. My gift to you is deterring this lover of Vichy.

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