brown-outs and in and out from blacking out
this kingdom of cloth, yachts, canvas dogs baring oil and a glass full of scotch, yonder the dogma of breaking out. This is a bank robbery, a fight so let's break it up. Baking club. Two cups of brown sugar, four cups of flour, two packets of apple sauce, vanilla extract, chocolate chips, two sticks of butter, come on now and stir it up. Things are stirring up. Flower petals and Hawaiian Punch, gardenias, orchids, a yellow top, blue jeans, and a green house walk.
California. Top-less, top-down convertible, brief rain on sunny days, and Urth Cafe for lunch. Valet parking on Melrose and window shopping with Snoop Dog at Rick Owens just to stir it up. While some things blur, all the best and brightest with their young supple ******* get together, eat lsd, just to sieve our cells so we can watch as the day is slurring us. Our words and our dance cards are hurting much. The drive to the desert while the beat brings us together and the Santa Ana's blow the pollen from the coast towards the Getty and it seems that our allergies aren't cured enough.
Two homemade lemonades in mason jars seem to me too ****, but to the youth it's the heat that packs the punch. An ounce for three hundred is way too much, on and on like an Indie song goes, Hot Chip and our Captain, we ride the Pacific Ocean while our skins tan under the heavy sun. One woman for me if it's you, is the best, and quite enough. So write your book about sailing a 12' Sunfish through the archipelago when you were four years old, and I'll edit myself into our narrative, use a paddle if the wind won't lift the main sail, and we can try to get home before the water swallows us. Blend the tropics with the fruit, and sneeze while facing the sun, if it's too much we can use Jet Skis and let the current bring us back to the coast one by one. Don't stop or drop the beat, don't worry because we've parked for free, so long as our batteries don't die, our flashlights will lead us home, it's a miracle to you, but just a number and a ticket to me, this is where the fun has just begun. Stirring it upside down, like a glass sailboat in a bottle and a love letter bleeding in salt water, have your romance but keep the sand out of our sheets, it's not like it's our bed, so we can't just have our fun.
I've taken a photograph. Way down in Alabama. Far into the delta where there's no cell signal, and the blues plays through our guitar, if you can do the harmony, I can sing for fun. It's not easy, the sound of our friends dying, drowning, in the despair their disease has overrun. But if we double our dreams, tear our skins and skip the streamers, blow up the balloons and catch the murderers that killed our son.
We can watch from the coast, stand at the top of the plateau, throw rocks into the cove, and free ourselves from a funeral that halves each other thru the mid-life synthesis we've been putting ourselves through, we can count, use the buddy-system and whistle loudly, fuse our genitals and flirt in a party that's just me and you, you might find that there's still fun for us, and this insanity isn't real, it's just a surrealist manifesto that in this earthquake we've just been painting our paths into. We've just begun to believe what isn't really grief but ought to be an afternoon or hunting and traveling at a grueling pace, with meager rations, there's not a snake bite I wouldn't be willing to **** the venom out of you, I'm just hoping you'd be willing to **** the venom out of me in time before I'd have to ask you to.
