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Tommy Randell Jun 2017
Reap where you soar you Eagles of Invention,
Music for the hunting and freedom for the soul.
Harvest the harmonies from the octaves of contention,
In the rhythm of words sing the stories untold.

Stand centre-stage unstoppable and uncowed,
Timeout the feedback on the Nemesis delay,
Ride out the thermals to smash through the sound-cloud,
A quasar of energy on a glorious crusade.

Live out your hunger, ride the reverb tsunami,
Surf down the back-line stoked on the juice.
The end is in sight, locked into the pipeline,
One wing in the water, one claw hanging loose.

Amp yourself up for the avalanche party
Such concepts of grandeur will never grow old
Dry Ice and lasers boost the glare up to ninety
Music for the hunting and freedom for the soul

And the dragon is with us our karma unleashed
We watch it catch fire it's plumage alive
In a beautiful frenzy see it rise like a Phoenix
No Angel and no Demon but the Beast that was prophesied!
A myriad of memories bunched into one - HAWKWIND from the 70's to NOW are a force of Nature and ROCKnROLL.
2tentacletashed chrome Cthulhu's shrunkenhead of an engine
shrunkenheadlocked by said 2 exhausts like chrome tentacles
tautened.
Leatherette saddle toasty as a witch's familiar in hot tin coven.
Panniers of jetblack fibreglass, some shrouded Schrodinger's
catcarriers ebon.
Sycamores overhang the courtyard walls, primaestival leaves
mantisgreen.
Sanctum sanctorum of the canopy a penumbral hunter's green.
Prima facie: Buddhist biker parkedup for a guidedmeditation.
Or p'haps he (or she) is not proverbial easyrider, karmadumping
1-to-1?
Stereotypes scream readily to mind like silvermachines of
                                              pedestrian
fancy; maybe this hog's a trendy vicar's, parishioner riding pillion
to the heathen Wellbeing Centre for acupuncture crown of ferns?
Whether Hell's Angel of Mercy, Pirsig reader or swami as the
                                          Stig, mystery remains
for visor on the skid lid stayed down tho' 3rd eye chakra might be
                                                                ­     open.
Where cross cliches of the open road & path to innerpeace,
a ***** has been riven
thru which a stranger's authenticity outstretches,
revving my imagination.

— The End —