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  • Writer's picturerobertsavela

Iron Claw and Siddhartha, "Skullcrusher" and the river...

“Yes Siddhartha,” he said. “Huge Sharon Tate riffs rich heighten essential sonics. Is this what you mean: that the river is in all places at once another sun-dirt down at its source and where it flows into the sea of proto-grit and grime, at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the rapids doom textures indulgence, in the ocean of original raw prog ‘n’ metal slop, in the chrome mountainside mirror trees break through that flat earth, everywhere at once, so for the river there is only the present moment and not the shadow of the future midnight disaster moon-time?” “It is,” Siddhartha said devils at the door and open it. And once I learned this I considered my life heavy dirt and fuzz burns and it too was a river wild ones get the worms fish tales and laws of imagination, and the boy Siddhartha was separated from the man Siddhartha wrapped in turquoise ‘n’ flutes and the graybeard Siddhartha only by shadows your bright brains are on, not by real things. Nothing was, nothing will be; everything is, everything has being and presence and hear the less tension stoner prayers.

He looked around nothing but his soul don’t come cheap as if he was seeing the world for the first time straight to hell dripping axes. Beautiful was the world, don’t work so hard freedom, colorful was the world with white magic sigils, strange and mysterious was the world like stalagmites cavernous ambience! Here was blue, here was yellow sucks your energy good, here was green, patches bell-bottom mood, the sky and the river flowed, the forest and the mountains were rigid constant cages and laughing pills, tumbleweeds caught in barbed wire, all of it was beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical form and function are one, and in its midst was he, Siddhartha out of his heart strings with forgotten guilt, the awakening one believe in something I guess double it, on the path to himself care not for what you do generally.

Siddhartha saw it hurrying and flying through the soft rocks stones to throw. The river, which consisted of him and his loved ones and of all people he had ever seen, all of these waves and waters were hurrying the other sides of those doors, suffering face the corner shadow of love, towards goals wait to bury it corpse flower, many goals, the waterfall, the lake lone duck ten acres, the rapids, the sea. All goals were reached, and every goal was followed by a new one crap-crusher skull enlightener, and the water turned into vapor and rose to the sky seagull cloud and hummingbird cloud, turned into rain and poured down from the sky, turned into a source, a stream, a river, headed forward once again, flowed on once again all is one emotion fuels and misery of past lives primitive liberating perception.

The many-voiced Sabbath Blue Cheerness song of the river echoed softly do you have empathy? Siddhartha looked into the river and saw many pictures in the flowing water drain the flask power-up racer. The river's voice was sorrowful hook it up all my life. It sang with yearning and sadness and single friction artistry, flowing towards its goal... Siddhartha was now listening intently... To this song of a thousand voices you gotta dance dance dance... Then the great song of a thousand voices consisted of one word: Om – perfection – abstract formlessness in the ether continuing in space/time... From that hour Siddhartha ceased to fight against his destiny the last desire the light is still on. She still haunts me 22 years.


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