"I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That's my dream. It's my nightmare. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor … and surviving." – Col. Kurtz, Apocalypse Now ~
Remember the golden age, Wally ***? And the songs my mother taught me?
We sang about what was. Or might never be.
Like permanency. Distinction comes out of stiff and frozen silences. Take it with a spoonful of disdain. Take it in the eye. Actors are like breakfast cereals. They're obvious and according to taste. I stopped needing them long ago.
Beautiful Tallulah. Beautiful, "less to this than meets the eye" Tallulah, dismiss me, that I may be free to find Tennessee.
Open windows and closing doors. Always a breeze, but never a way out. Right on cue the cards shuffle.
Butter and cotton *****, tricks of the trade. I mumble to be heard. I am legend to disciples of the Method.
I wear my friends to bed, burn them like newspaper. They call me "Bud" —cigarettes at dawn after devouring the night. And now my song ebbs, as the stylus hits the leadout groove.