Animal is hungry
Been sleeping far too long
Gonna fill this lacuna
Don't believe anything you touch. Sensation and perception are the hollow-point wounds of psychological demons. Or something to that effect. I swing canyon to wormhole on subliminal message microwaves sliding neutrons in my pocket for snacks down the road. Just a wasteground here where the land refuses to grow. There's mob-action in the orchard all dip and sway for god knows what reason save for Gertrude Stein that saucy minx. Constantly addicted to the bridge light nightlife we all bus back and down the quay, just queuing up again at one end to the other grabbing neon signs and drunk bar fights on the way. There's always a gentleman caller standing at the doorway stone in stone on a brisk lit black night waiting for the whistle from down the street, and we would all climb in the car and run. Check the weapons and check the attitudes, the egos for basking in self-glory, all at the step up diner where we slung our stomachs full of chilies and beer. Toasting like the white marshmallows we were going diffuse in the grey matter slashing in the trees, we were only goin 30 last i saw the dial swing past Mars.
This is forgiven in the hashed morning grating of bones and cold stone mattresses the great old trees sleep in. While we all may wonder what holiday we began on, or what day we first started hauling the world our way, there were one hundred ninety-eight days of scorched silence and dazzling liquid words tumbling out the sideway windows to the aloof pavement. But at least we had some say. Lucid Joy was a bit more skeptical, just saying we were kids the whole time we were wild, drumming our legs and toes with fingers and wrists popping, just tatting and ratting the rumble in our threads and bones. She was a great gal alright, in for a penny as if it were a fortune all the same, singing the beads to our clefting threads, filling my lil lacuna almost all the way with something saltier than earth and rain and might. It was the essence of the old khakis in that drab hankering hue like
honey I'm gonna come to California
sleeping all the way on the train car through and lamp-lit lingo-ing keeping me up all night in the ramshackle slow dive effect these mean dug birds just these three doves a meal and four corners and a head hung low
Count your sleeping children in decimals and dogs, one per sweating brow in the granary or factory with all the stolen steel of men getting suckled down. There was one time I shoveled out a small hole in myself and threw in everything but the christ I knew. And in a herring's space that howling knew. Much like paved over sand dunes there was always a lot to say for the external obsession while holding my umbrella beneath the ocean tide. Its gonna bury the bits while the tires spin, just muddying up us both. Chortles were the best, the heaviest of guffaws were too unreasonable, and that Joy she said, she said it was just the same all the while humming every little piece of cold out of my hands. Just say we are kids the whole time we were wild and handsome and stoned, shake the steering column with the trembling blast of 'again' as we drive ourselves crazy blazing into the sun rattling the tune of towering dreams to come. Sing a lil Joy song to bring our sons and daughters home, like a lullaby with beat and clamour enough to wake the living.