The hero surviving his own murder, his own suicide, his own addiction, surviving his own disappearance from the scene

... who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, ...

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.