Sipping Lutein Milkshakes from Rose Petals

Waiting for some kind of change crossin' over the road
It's time to take control again and be the only one
It's time to sell your soul again and be the holy one

Late age and agnosticism are rival adventurers like Roger Moore and Livingstone, trapped upside down in a lions den, no pride or prejudice to the sparking wires. The store fronts have grayed once 7PM calls out along the brick wall walkway avenue, chanced that pink lights might illuminate the ruddy hue of skin and fishnet underwear. Cos these kids don't wear cotton or canvas, how trite would that be?, instead they mingle with leather and bead dangling, just denim and nylon and black lace over hoods. The redlight district is like hell on mars, dusty and musty and choking life in suffocating fashion, I am dry here. Not sober in the way sobriety intones, where liquor never touches my toes or my feet or fingers or shoulders or lips, cos I bathe in this drunken atmosphere and can't be anything but intoxicated.
The longer the spring takes to find its stride, the longer it rakes off the horned edge of my psyche taking ego and interest far down into winter's mild grave. The yellow-lit white-striped streetlamp street is heaven in a certain hour, when child doesn't know the shadows that crawl across me with passing cars and passing cares and passing doors closing with heavy, thick-warm sighs, just gilded guilt trips of should haves and would bes and no mores for the immortal sensation of passion can go on burning cans of paint that color flashes to sandstone flashing.
Late age and agnosticism as I said once is nothing more than hurling laundery and latitutde between you and the feeling of empty vessels floating down Niles and Amazons, those slipstream consciousnesses that suck us under. So then you stuff full a rucksack, like you knew what one was for, full of trivia and esteem and novels and good lots for casting, just packing it in so that sinking is half the fun of going home. Hitting the atmosphere in the desert dune hearing techno bouncing off satellites and mirrors on the cacti and tomato stands in the shade. Heavy soul these late August nights late in February frost bitten tips and tangled wire on the dreams, hanging like slack lines on the July prairie.
Sitting backwards looking straight sideways at a problem often makes it a timeless piece of art not worthwhile to cut and stip bear, cos problems are tangible abstract mosaic collages of lifes beauty. Write that down.
I feel the road banging away beneath my feet, yearning to be driven, walked, ridden, upon. Sitting here backwards and typing without seeing I have found this triumphant, a cold style of unsettling vindication, no fist or broken stick, no ash or feather. Just a long string of the same nameless text from non-corporeal type. Phantom, maybe. But not quite yet.
Cheers.