Ring Me Another...

I need a taxi, beansie. I need one... hook me up. Whistle one for me. Whistle into the microphone under the bright lights for me, honey pie. I need a taxi, whistle, taxi. Hook me up tomorrow, hook me up right now. Lighten up a bit, swell towards me, sweet thang. oooooh, i need a taxi baby. i need to ride around the city under the bright lights, lovely lips. I need some taxi healing, I need some wonderful pastel umbrella t-skirts in my life, just a bit more. under the sewer system lies a community of indulgence, and that's where I'm gonna tell my taxi driver to take me, if I can ever blood-orange wire that information to ya, soft and luscious. Oh, you're saying I'd be rightly tightly wandering spellbound around the chalk undertow your big beautiful eyes pull on my belt buckle - deny it, taxi serplenkter, deny it forever - just know that under the bright lights where the jazzy silky smooth creamy carpet-ride gets pumpin' it gets really, really steamy...baby.

Under the hood he told me a while ago, but this taxi does things differently, it doesn't even ride, Rosie - it slides. We pause for a smooth sec because that's what you do in front of something so easy on the eyes. we roll out and the bright lights beam on me, baby. well i guess that's the way things are these days, sweet thang.

And when the stereo drops out, even momentarily, that's when those loaded wristfuls forge on forward, carrying high octane taxi fuel, friendly foe. we revolve around the new force field, the bright lights start humpin', foxy - and the neon green teases that trashy comfortable maroon into excitement. and when you see something like that, you slow the fuck down baby, and you pay your respect. because that's what the legend would've done, that's how the garage master would've done it.

And in the time we call the "Smoothly-golden, Savory Ages," my man ruled this here grimey sidewalk. we're talking about the man who not only plugged in those topsy curvy neon garnishes; we're talking about the guy who single-man-handedly invented the luscious language of light, you yellow-robed legend you.

We love the driving so much. We need stereo again, now that we're done with that stop. Whooshin' and sidewalk sweepin' through life is what I desire my sophisticated friend - so proceed baby, keep it goin'. And we rode and rode baby and the left lane became the right lane and the yellows bowed down to us and we accepted their deference. In my taxi honey, I'm not up to my ankles in the grimey haystacks of my city, I'm back in the Smoothly-golden, Savory Ages, and I'm with my man - I see you prowlin' around on your chrome cat - and I want you to tell me about your life my man. Talk to me baby.

Tell me about your trips my happy man - talk to me about the fucking freeway dragonflies and the wingbolts and the fucking right lane shining regalia. you went all the way down, you're a legend, you're mine. Sometimes I laugh and think of you, you classy cat you - I know the way your bottom lip probably protruded when you and the golden goddess made love - teach me my man. I'm still here, I'm still here in this glorious fucking taxi baby, hook me up. Hook me up, teach me baby. Teach me before I have to step back out into the bright lights, where the stereo stops. Where the world stands still but my ill-fated heart keeps aging. Slow down taxi man! Slow the fuck down when you see something like that....because my man would've - and his eyes would've opened real big.

Sealed

On the dark side of things I have thoughts, but I'm usually on the bright side which is good, both for my own health but more importantly because the dark side can be analyzed in all these ridiculous manners — and while potentially revealing, they do not dominate my thought processes, so they aren't real. I mean, no, they could be real but let's face it, only the majority is real.

Drifting, your scent escapes me. Why is the base of our project so obsessed with this single issue? I guess it was due, I mean no, there's no more regular scheduling. The regular scheduling era is over, now we're into the blue moon era, and that sucks. That really just blows.

All the condensation.

The Golden Market

Stack dump { ggpiATISka }.

Bombay, Bombay, come in Bombay... "Eash! I need you to lubricate the bottom of my teflon pan with some grease from the gears of my favorite amusement park ride." Bombay...I'm sorry, what was that? I'm sorry. What? Oh. It's not Bombay anymore, they changed their city's name. Mumbai, come in Mumbai, oh. Hi. Listen I am going to make a quick omelette, I will be back before you can say ...
In the purple market on Ambedkar, golden light suffused the street. All the brown dirt being kicked up by those Age of Empire carts played perfect complement to the already complementary gold light piercing women's purple fabric. The color of the wood on the carts won the Sixth Man's award even though in some circles it placed as high as third (the point guard, for some).
But what stood out most at this ridiculous Hollywood set was the crime that had been committed down one the faux-alleys. It was dark enough there, obviously they couldn't afford that trashy commercial golden light for every square inch of the set. A man had been _______ and was bleeding from the neck. "Eash, where the fuck is my amusement park gear grease? Say, would ya look at that...looks like a river of highly oxygenated blood. These people."

Noose Kerosene Suffusion: Part Five, Punishment

Stack dump { dysurvbbcu } - pure sex.

Modern-day appellation incantation (for muses). Who sets your boundaries? Teresa of the strong will, I'm going to come into your city inside a Trojan horse. Oh, for the love of god I forgot to adjust for magnetic north. That's going to shift us about one Mediterranean Sea to the laughed. You're not laughing.

So here we are with the yellow rice, where's the red vest, Teresa? Teresa? Great, I left her in the behind. Nothing? She's all the way there and I'm here, sigh, alas, that's all there is to it.
Between the bridge girders I noticed something funny about my skyline. That's all I'll say since the only aim was to establish ownership. Yeah it was really hot, and that's fine. Bumblebees are the ultimate punishment dispensers, and that's what I fucking need.

Maybe getting punitive will heal my wounds. I need a framework to worth within. Maybe punitive measures will help me create boundaries. Perhaps the rich imagery Teresa gives me under my SilverLight will inspire the masses. More likely, however, is that what is corporate will always be perceived as corporate to the masses in their bubbles. Inappropriate labeling leads to misunderstandings and bratty obstinacy.

She represents the world on a warm summer afternoon. She evokes a fever fount of inspiration which blasts through bottlenecks, accelerates mental acuity, destroys tedious rationality, and stretches usually unused vessels. She wears casual clothing yet elicits formal, visceral responses. Where is that bridge? Twilight is approaching...get the black car and the steady-cam - the lights are about to flicker just south of adagio.

Time-Tested Licensing

Stack Dump { s&wfca3eb }.

Fundamentum

Avoid sanguine conceptions of prefatory material at all costs. They destroy lucidity, inspire rage, and are at best, marginal. Similarly, parenthetical data denies accessibility for the members of your audience whom you should highly regard. Blend sardonic, first-person observations with unnecessarily abstruse sentence constructions which achieve surface complexity. Inject riff-writing and riff-thinking - it's what the brain was programmed to do, and since it's a path of least resistance, I'll think I'll take it. The permutations are, of course, finite. Irregardless, there's a pretty explicit gradient despite the illogical negative prefix. This is not just rhetoric, it's law, and it's going to help me build my vast multimedia autobiography.

The plans...perfunctory, the palette...

Ahab's Future World

Stack dump { smbnntd }.

Slow-mo blood splattered stuttering, that's what we feel like around those types of people. In order to remove the bottleneck, a whole barrel of high-risk, invasive surgery is required. What a fucking shame. These days.

Sluggin'

The second iteration has a vague echo, but for the most part we're talking about the same thing. We're doing the same exact thing. All of our decisions are identical, we are clever composers. Indeed, 1985 was an extremely, extremely important year. It was our big break. March hymns and upbeat electronica inspired our lives.
Oh, how long can a charade last? Pretty long, apparently. That is the nature of a circle, you know, what goes around comes around. In due time, the pendulum swings and if you're standing where you were the last time it came around, you're going to get knocked out. Unfortunately, that's the nature of justice in this world. Fortunately, everyone drones around dumping sediment all over the next guy's alluvial plain - rarely incurring the wrath of the forward-swinging pendulum of justice. And that is what I have to show, [16.3], thanks.
I want to create a vast multimedia autobiography, but the multi keeps growing. I want to index it, but it's slipping from abstraction (which can't be a bad thing, I guess). Ya see, statements like that are going to get me in trouble. I must resist such things. Stack dump { smbnntwp }. A vast, multimedia autobiography. Unless you're straight with us, things will never change.