Ignition Post-Position

If the devil parked in my business, I'd light him up and throw out the receipt. In the city, we deliver each other from daily sins, we drench up and down all day, all night. We expand like blue bubble gum at the intersection of flighty emotion cushions and the devil's comeuppance. "For you only the highest grade sirloin," I told her in passing. And she said, slow down son.

I heard my mind and transcribed what I heard. It told me to slow down, take one thing at a time, break it down break it down. What's complex wholly is partly simple. Ok so now I break it down I draw some vertical lines. Now I have two brass parts: a trumpet and a saxophone. I'm sure you see the discrepancy already, don't you? Obviously, you can't play the trumpet while you play the saxophone, so stop trying, she said.

Follow me to wider times, follow me to the future, I frequent here often. You're going to need a ticket, a special permission authorization from the government. If you live in certain zip codes this isn't a problem - I'll pluck ya right out of your coward-hut. We love the system. We love the system. We love the system. We love fossil fuels and their refinement. We love men behind booths and behind messy wooden desks: "my office is such a mess, excuse me." We love instant incarceration, we love petroleum pillows in the cell. "That's fine," my rockin' dude told me with a rifle beneath his tummy.

Happiness, surround me, enfuel me, breathe me. Light me up spark me down, dull to a barely conscious chaotic din, and then ravish our artillery all at once. Throw the sticks down, zap me with your purple turquoise voltage. What parameters does my current mood pass to this periodic lamedar I've developed. My inhibition-system needs a little reworking if I'm going to start this engine again. Well, isn't that the moral of the story these days. I wanna modulate in and out of that. I don't want to lose this, lose my control. Day after day it went on and on. On a hill where dinosaurs roamed, I stared down at my dreams, nestled in the urban sunset.

I flip on the lights, full throttle chuckle, there she is...[explicit, must purchase the whole album to view]. Wolverine-man tumble fall down down down and out, stop the bleeding. Elbows at odds, heart pounding, seeking the comfort of darkness and your [explicit, must purchase the whole album to view] skin. What scares me is that I may never get that again. Deadness, as a feeling, is interesting, and it explains alot about recreational drug use. A gentle breeze or a Manilow melody whips the deadness into glory. Deadness dams the onslaught of a raging environment or a familiar pop tune too, and for that reason, I desire it, for I would relish it, I want some relish on it, I want to relish the relish on my dead sandwich of life, a tautology.

Spin in to the room, it's so bright now, everyone's doing the ancient dance. Ancient to the extent that this colonial would know. Bright to the extent that hundreds of oil lanterns hung from the rafters can produce. Hung in the sense that this is happening someplace colonial. Following the formula, we riderate: riding to the right! the devil leave you alone. the devil leaves you, the fiery devil leaves...he leaves the oil lanterns burning. Such formulaic tastes and preferences mean that someone, anyone, can program a robot to come and get me to do anything. I am thoroughly surmountable. I AM THOROUGHLY SURMOUNTABLE! fuckin' you up. fuckin' you up! thoroughly surmountable!

Leaving yet? No. Still the One baby. Tim Duncan, Lenore, glandular amputation, meatloaf. Living peacefully in myself, of myself, but not to the gas mileage. Twilight transformation. Slowly, we changed. We widened in all directions. We rose above the rest and attained a truly special vantage point. From her shoulders I could see water towers and suburban grid deviation. A charge of night: and I could see Idlewild! the distant shores of Rio de Plata, Catanian seaports, brick slabs smugly resting on an insurmountable hill, London. I am charged. My veins have been alchemically, eugenically altered for ever, for the [explicit].

So formulaic it hurts, you know? So programmable. I could be abstracted away, I could be a freelance job for someone who really hates me. I'm itchin' for a comeuppance, ya see? I'm dyin' for a little fourth-dimensional skewing. Burn it up. Burn my time for me honey. Make it run, make it melt, just burn it up. There are times and places I tell myself, there are spots and there are vines, and when you cross vines and neglect spots, you end up with, well...my ideal job. Sign me up! Register. Rewind. Cross-square costume shopping just a week before everything changed, forever.

Oh drugs, oh rusty whistling and dampened advice...just tell me what I need to know in order to get from the urban hustle to that windy perceptual plane of recreational depressants mixed with professional light equipment and maybe a hook nose and a flat chest and a dog and a helmet....two helmets...and a garden. and an [explicit reference].

Epic ant-hill commando, ARM! (adillo). Road rage scares me, but I never understood how yellow could be slandered in such an irrevocable manner. Little old wizard guy in blue said, "you're going to have to come up with a whole lot more than that if you want a tubride to packed tri-state-area stadiums in forty years." A little slap here, an elbow slam there, patriotism-veneered placards on nude babes way...whoo...river wild, river wild, river slams me up and down through this time. It's venereal really. The chaos of the river, the chaos of our situation the vines and spots the straights and the hills.