My headache has grown into a deciduous, fruitful spasm of throb, pulsating slowly whenever someone yells out my name, or anyones name, or anything related to anyones name, or anything else actually. My blood red guitar lead melts into a vase and is soaked up by a purple flower, omitting rays of light that duplicate in the presence of daytime. Thou sit upon my lap and notice the fluttering bird sitting above my head in adore of my new brown suit that i bought a the local store of $45 or my finest earnt savings, all withdrawn from the bank. A tissue, rubbished in the bin alines with your soul you bitch. YOU HOOKHEAD. YOU''D never ever touch base with a grave digger agian would you you law abiding sound scripted faint paced philosphical 50cents in my pocket, take you daughter out on sunday, share the news with an old person next door, read the paper and finnish the crossword, go the library in a social mood, eat at a restaurant that charged extra for pregnant woman, zap your veigns at a party with a rapping free for all wimsical approach to the otherwise abandoned, flat, tangent of life. The lawn is surrounded by other lawns, and other lawns surround those lawns. The lawns are not green, nor blue, nor any colour. not big, they are not small, they do now own to size. Are not soft, nor hard, nor anything. They are simply without description The garage is shining with objects in a permicsious round-a-bout fahsion. As o procced into the depths of house warming welcome to the hip life, welcome to the cool life take of those bootcut pants my friend they are way to emo for your boyish looks and charming demeanour you salminating winner or winners, never loosing a chance to be a delerious owner of filth and life and death and everything you might call an amicable start to the day. Breakfast only comes if you want is, with lunch and dinner and the weather report on the news telling me its a cloudy day in new york tonight when new york is a millions lightyears away and i dont even give a fuck
improv...feeling the flow. digging the rigours of the night and whatever the poison is that you choose. I choose the whiskey (or the scottish say whisky). But I feel it just the same because 80 proof is 80 proof and we all die of something. Dig? Mexico street in the jungle or desert is a foreign land for any who weren't born from a mother's womb within her borders. I die each day I realize that latin is not latino but existed before when gods were gods and were many...Why have we reduced our deity choices to one? Shouldn't we cover our bets? American I am...confused I am... and I live in the night. Posting mad prepositions which will never climb the tree. Or do anything siginificant to the tree. The tree is life, and I fear it. I dig you...Let's ride the road. Dean's calling in Frisco's night and he is a mad man... Shall we let him drive?