Paste-down

Chop service available, chop service encouraged - ya big double-L. I have none of the aforementioned affectations in my knapsack today - and therein lies the problem. Oh well god bless America your exposed left shoulder does wonders for the grey hoodie on your right. It hangs on you like I want to hang on you. Throw one of those turquoise jewels into my mouth, see what happens...

We depart the scene when the disbelief of nineteen-thirty caresses the distant shore, and the daily production of luminescence slaps and whacks at the solar cheeks of the western cherubs. The sea, the chaos, the contractionation, the full-length body suits, and the third button haunt me during the ascending bass section. I dream of things to come & I dream of your return, but it's almost twenty hundred, we're running out of time.

Not if we run quicker, not if we concentrate, not if we navigate the nets of the first crossing. There's a way to deal with this problem of ours and it's not to panic. It's not to freak out, it's not to shun the savory sinews of the lesser creatures. The nutrients, those special nutrients who hold no office, who shame not yet who fly and scavenge.

All of that is too floral for me. I'm going to need another deposit, turquoise queen. Show me the front, suit up and button down. Return forever cycle cycle. The slowness, the buldup, the process, it's the process I desire. I desire the process, the mountain at the edge of the sea. We roll on to the edges and we flip across a teflon sea of lethargy, of dull fire on the horizon, it's almost twenty-one hundred - the chaos.

In the intermission we discuss cellular modules over a stiff cocktail. It's all about flow, she tells me. Yeah flowing sounds great I suspect, with no memory, we deliver the twins' care-packages. The distance the blossoming the success of it all the mirror on the wall. dreaming now I suppose but the straw pricks my nose and the show starts to begin. Inside the criminalized eyes lie the pollen from the buds of my wiring.

So things have changed now that we're back in the dark, now that twenty-two hundred is upon us. Now that the darkness has rooted itself the echoes reverberate in the distance and fluctuate their projection direction. We hear space laser factoids and brassy racism in the depths of the landscape. We can't make it out, there's no specificity, it's everyone - it pulses. We ascend occasionally but the driving rhythms bring us back, they cauterize our ideas with the chemical of the century. Sometimes the fed gets all motivated and that gives us hope. It empowers us, we yell and we modulate between the speeding highway and the bleak darkness we're going to suffer under for another at least eight hundred more flowscapes. Reason with the darkness, with the cacophony.

I'll give you a reason, it's order versus chaos and we're edging closer and closer towards the latter. I'm scared when the pulsing drops out and sixty-three tens climb the night stairs, holding candles, holding the keys - chemically masking our tears and pain. This will only last so long, this will only lead to a tear-down. A wide-mouthed take down, a scorching blistering process, a competition with the ages against the clock against the chaos and the cacophony. Against the windy mountain with the twin guides and the wide expanse of urban lanes ascending the tubed-in crossing.