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  • Writer's picturerobertsavela

20 years nomadic beat with the Only Lovers Left Alive soundtrack

The coarseness of it all red hot walking foot bouncing back and forth wiggin’ wildside to and fro down the corridor living in the stars don’t look back. Action and non-action-dirty-eyes the Tao of driving says those proto-bitches droppin’ freedom desert run. They are the edge runners my pretties open up with a death language strung out for years and it reduces the moment to Zen concentration. Serve one master, watch out for the OCD and the road’s not long enough anyway. The boulevard fast lane rollin’ 4 wheels sultans of sleaze obey none surrounded by face to face with oneself in the dark and not with the gods. Liturgy kneel-praying and dirty rags on the cutting room floor. Night creatures hammers and 2 fingers slithering off the blacktop and seeing sounds as visual shapes purple-eyed trail of prints, seeing meaning suicide note blood theatre, seeing Jung, umma gumma follow the demons to the turn of the next century. We died on the road between two thoughts at roughly 100 BC, promise me hell.

Greasy arms dumpster screaming fire in the glass jungle gots the time gots the thorn turning goldseed and bird-storm at the traffic light of only one color, green. Sin-gone-some dollface plastic cheeks with the Doris dance and Chi-Chi too. Nazarene jump the skulls, symbolism of traveling the interstate don’t know when to stop. No goals, no rules for that, no more bong hits but only for the horror prophet pick-up streets and jumping beans and danger-danger and “my dharma is the road” says dusty face Wally Brando thank you, talk is cheap. Dharma on the rails criss-cross the land and meet me down on the upside and take 3 masks up the hill. Eat your tail and give me the dose bite it, a knife for a tail, purity crunchers cobra spews serotonin.

Evolution always gets more complicated with the spirit of the pavement, rails, skies and crusty patch dried history end of time, the last gong. There’s a body let’s leave.


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