A story of the machete slits Frankenstein ruiner…or…Where will we end up in life, condemned? Or at ‘the widow is not dead’ conferences? Rumi says “unfold your own myth,” the heart of a hyena still sings.
Eighty-bones-warm music is not disposable, so become it the incense night embedded. Assimilate the echoes and the small town cleanliness LA dirt nap.
The last chance meeting by a waterfall with an L7 fox for the nineties witchery and a machine pterodactyl. There the black pills will enable a squaring of the circle and a raise-the-dead breaking of the tubes and ears.
Morning crust tragedy and altered consciousness swaying through the lands of mystery in another dimension magic-touch-cherry-horses veins a-pop.
A passionate pace to death on the trigger dead eyes, she throws the light illusion and a shadow. Nobody-wins-in-the-end altar of it ain’t me babe.
Tortured light-the-candles-on-fire souls always against time with subterranean secrets. They think in the “everything is fiction” abstract vernacular and a dancing Ganesha state of mind.
Some times like the nightlife lady in red, an uplifting-negativity-glitch-is-priority-or-cry-for-love philosophy by the guy upstairs sittin’ for a week in the closet.
A philosopher’s stone lonely miracle subculture, integrity like ants, unlike the modern media smells like a beer medicine wanting-to-be-somewhere-else feeling.
The sea is angry my watchers, Plato gives permission for the in a cave romance blackened flowers primitive rock & roll sound of a knife symphony attitude.
Like going uphill both ways or an axe throw or a hangman game - a unity of opposite colors and the warning-is-near worship don’t follow goodbye…