Jumping through genres and avoiding cliches - Tales of Murder and Dust
It all started with John Cale’s The Velvet Underground and Nico parasite street walkin’ heroes the needle’s in if you got some.
Seamless melodic menagerie of god’s machete and Feck’s weed. A cornucopia of self-medicating and reek of Crispin Glover.
Dusting fairies ‘n’ flutes by the waterfall like a Wisconsin hurricane made of tears. Calm after the storm with mangled lungs and Sisyphus legs.
Only marathon shroom experiences available so drop out, tune out, get in the van and load it up with foil hats on the skulls just in case.
Feet on the effect pedals ode to the kingdom inside all gods, no masters, no hassles.
In the veins of a preacher spineburner body joint roller highway sparks fire and Jesus rides runnin’ horsepower on Rosecrans Rd.
Respect of music history, ego reflection chasing hearts and cleaning retinas the whippet paradox rumor has it.
Dead eyes but lotus flower visions and rotting sage pile harvest times and hallucination day station “starry eyes” she said, a loner ‘til death fragile bones and livers.
Falling rocks like 10,000 lucifers and devil’s roots mopping up the maggots on a fire and nails floor at the funhouse.
Anchor of despair in the martyr’s world with distorted goats don’t spill the blood like in 1982, Ottis Toole horror humans.
Dip in the moat of placenta with a bag of dust and comfortable hugs, no fear of attachment in the fast lane speed king blues Heather and the 12th ring. Love.
Tao worship and patience mantra test, sickest of them all is SAMO guerilla arts don’t stop creative.
Alien residency down ‘n’ out on the night bus and chariots with the little deuce coupe casting spells, check the code, check the wheels.
The moment when she picks the flower. Nerve combustion arm hair buzzin’ before the scars there were no stories.
If the sun was flat sound filled ether moon Martian says initiate burns and only die in the end if you have the luck of the joker and le momo.
Sounds like antiques and oddities, unmovable Mr. Roboto cannon fire it. Jolly Roger come home I have a 124-pack.
Bohemian breakfast coffee and a cig and a piece of pie. PNW Twin Peaks style gloom dream destroyer trollin’ graveyards.
The Warlocks-ish cosmo-gaze tinnitus drone-cloud pills in the jar-o. Edge of the madman empty eyes no shining soul and detention queens with old creeping death on the radio.
Fear and trembling all arrows towards my mind and dreams too. Warm chaos lived destiny at the limits head-tilt full-tilt theater of magic.