Saturday morning- Repaired by a smile, Found a leg in my cereal, took a walk. Saturday night- Used a headphone splitter, Starred into the eyes of a spiral, and Died. Sunday morning- Woke in an infinite haze, visited Saturn on a surf board, and drank some cold lava with the girl across the street. Sunday night- probably die again, Listen to Pink Floyd, and write this down. down. down.
3 in mourn. Queen Jane Approximately. 65 Dylan getting the better of me. The steam’s a little wired. Letting all of it in. Room at the Morrison. And a drink of apple sauce medicine. Good enough. Terrible. Never better.
Wooden stresses. Along the mongers and the cages. The sea green forgery. Bagged to the top. Lynched at the top. Chained through the lot of others. Thou the wicked of brothers, sisters and mother's. Oh the horror. Of Syd. Throw it in midair.
60 down the main road. Throw it all away. Tossed in the wind like a bag. And hovers away like the smoke from a cigarette. The whole lot of 1,304 miles of bliss. And find that someone that's groovy enough to groove with you. All the way there.
Embodying the psychedelic lust of youth. We stealthed our way into the ancient cinder block. Old and moldy. Cold. We made our way to the top. A cold breeze off the bay sea. Pushing along her hair. We sat in that cold night air. Just watching.
Cloaked in sap. Maple scent of her lips. Fall asleep. A cretaceous machine. Spiral down into the unforgettable. A nostalgic depression. Felt before. Again. And again. And again. Forever float in the entertaining undesirable. While holding hands.