“You’re going to reap just what you sow, You’re going to reap just what you sow, You’re going to reap just what you sow, You’re going to reap just what you sow…”
Homeless and heavy with the bevy of faults, and heady with the pace of electric sessions to cure the homogenous core. To a land that’s far off the marvel of a lonesome gallery, here in the alley degreed in vanity and guffaws. The daunting windblown doors of bars with a flushed female singer, in a black tight skirt and a black tight top with blonde hair shining in dilated eyes.
Upbeat smolders, upbeat smolders. Thru East Hampton, New York, Manhattan. Subterranean and Pacific rows of echoes. Shiny trails of rock music.
Ambient experimentation, ambient experimentation.
Ashen sweater, ashen man.
Gunshots over guitars. Poe raven. Life underground, all cheering, high soaring,
freewheeling, critics abhorring.
The city is full of countless keepers with a custard emotion, daydream, and delusions of the young navy, twisty friends. It isn’t their first time, it’s there to air the last time, the generation of white lines, and he’s a nice singer and the band leader, there to beat forever, to beat forever.
“Open up to the leisure world of distinctive types. That’s how I feel, the place I’m going seems so full of exciting characters. Scandalous magazines and oceanic nights soothed by the plurality of the meantime, I’m free and I can’t feel nothing but the strange weather. After the bright victory and the bitter surf of futurist ambivalence, I’ve got a handle of the tide. At least for now, but I don’t have to consider anything but ‘now’, for now anyway. Beat-beat-beat-la-la-La. Surfing on the wavering vividness of voodoo space and gypsy time, take me higher to that place in the city lights where the silhouetted fingers of tree adorn the strip of concrete pavement with a starry look. By the means of a venerated banner that crinkles prettily in that special song of sunlight and the performance of Warhol people. Fame-fifteen minutes-trash magic-agony fiend no more. Even when the stage doesn’t work in rarity, it works in the sparkling hope of fantastic silk in the shadow of a radio show’s talk. Through the frenzies of several cold radiances that flash before me, I have finally decided on one, not settled but decided. An abundance of road days could bank me to the Rhine, Rhone or the Rheidol, I’ll stay and shake with pleasure. Churning, burning a definite plop of the blue dahlia. Go-come-leave-stay, you don’t have a sign”
Here’s a world to which I like to sing along. All the pretty stars, the paradise art, sunny jazz, coca-cola, black beaches, Italian cinema, and capable poetry, stable poetry; Peruvian poetry! The whole world is in a cult, they beat the heart and they sing rivers. With feathers in their hair, they fall on watery streets. But the collection of colors is clear- you can see most everything. Caesium, Lithium, Vienna, and sunshine. You could be smoking in the neon lights at gas stations but can you see the European days perfumed with celestial freedom and ending time at Alcatraz or a Caribbean island.
Forests feathered with ferns, snow salting the ground, pages webbed with words and the brain grassed with dreams. I’m funning away my life, dreaming away my time.
“Warnings take hell and high water. Eyes race to the sick of the stomach. All the losses I’ve started to watch, all the urges I’ve tried make me want to rush while I’m still alive off the blood. Meet me somewhere where the hearses go to heaven, in the twelfth hour of closing verve, in the middle of the effervescing haze as the sun shines whitely and decorates the neck of the sky. I wouldn’t lie, I won’t make a sound. Take the fault from me and I’ll fix myself till eternity. I’ll remember it well, like the rain of my reasons and the pump of my problems, if I have a memory of occurring left to my head it’s getting dim, too dim to look at the brightness, if I keep dreaming then I’ll find a day that stands still, a day that doesn’t subtract the happy times. My heart goes on chanting its beat like an anxious prayer, my mind keeps being nervous. I can’t survive if this is the act of this lounge, it’s too psychotic and wintry. You have to take me right now, aneurysm, be faithful like a euphemism if not then forget it – I’m just going to crack readily, redly. But If I get away from this dark hold, I’ll run to a great Caribbean summer, I’ll run, run, run”
At the dawn’s premier light, ride up higher. With a Shanghai sunrise, come easy rider. It’s the black-and-white horizon that colors always misunderstand But it’s just the way that I am. Rowing my cool and holding your hand.
It's the end of July, young lion, Did the oceanic wind catch your fire? Has the electric verse on the movie screen caught your silver Through the darkening dire river Freeing the spirit culture had, In the Californian run, the sand, the land.
They were stranger's forever, we were forever's stranger. An evermore and a never, a cover of dangers.
On the path of true and simple happiness lies nothing to deviate. It’s not
even a road, it’s an unpretentious setting where you realize you are in some
moments of your survival. In rare but honestly the most memorable instances of life,
wherever and whatever are enough. It’s enough. Everything is fine, let things
be reflection in a wineglass full of cola and contemplation the spring of water
from the fountain of showers. I know that what I think isn’t always right and
almost never healthy but I can’t stop what I love to do.