Time to speak but not in words, in some words maybe but mostly in tones & in the movements of audible shapes through time, over time, we are MADE of time, so the shapes are moving through us, or else we are the shapes, & we (&/or they) are speaking to & through our selves. Look away before crossing both your bears. Kitty paws at the coda.
A well suited tune, carnivalesque & tropicary, the psychedelic lunge act from the distant eye lands of your mind’s fields. An unconscious weather report la-de-da. There’s that melody again that’s always on your mind but why you’ve never dreamed it into a symphony (before can be beyond) my is, a new character spells diversion & spin again for double or not before the curtains go up inflamed in their eel show, begin sat 16 Archie, type-L devils on electric horseback sing & play an exquisite coin to punt, the last ballad dance -erk- runes for release, back into the world…
…where the mushroom hoedown has just begun in a swirl of dancing flower melt kaleidoscoops. We were lost in space before the gleam in anybody’s (left I turn alepht, wears three) moat. It is relatively-small-squirrel season & the bugs are imperiled on this sumlit sun-reavening. The devils return with the last flame-red sky clovers of sundown & pigs are once again a theme. Mystic memories on this tired road. I believe you have grown. (Take a moment to dance before the song is over)
Drink from the talking bear skull, it dictated all of this & most of the lyrics & some of the music except for what came from the leaf-pressing elves, the dryads & the wet ones, climbed out of the whiskey bottle just in time to strum a lonely chord or free the airhead cloud dancers, trapezoid from line to line & zip their flying ways across the open scale. Your conclusions are worth rechecking. Stand together at the still-point in each other’s hands where the lady’s heron backwards, outdoors is the way to not-think. (Dancing elm trees & flowering vines haves adjoined in the re: view) Evaporate as if from a dream.
OHHH HDrums. Here they come. CLANG! The bearer of the wands returns astride the wandering bear. The air is alive in this cave, with electrostagmalites & leafy transmissions. Time is thick with veins of energy. Later there will be thunder, also rain. The ocean will rise & we will cross it, & always we will look familiar to each other by reincarnation chemistry or applied capitalism, either way game over when we get our brains back & find out who we were or not at all. So: who wants to win or be right when the journey is all the fun drifting, like a ship out on the sea & it’s all a teardrop dripping, down from an albatross’ frosty eye, a mist ewe. The golden bear skull & the painterly corrosionings of cars & rusty crows. *Slurp.
Who’s that shouting in the next room? Standing on cardboard drums & murmuring inanities in an unfalse if one-eyed expression of hearts in tent city. Take it outside, your guitar smells like onions.
Tap the cork on a strange dimension. Put your dancing gloves on. There is purple in the air, silver clouds of smokey black & white, but a gold light will fade through from beyond the scene & paint us on the nohow side of these extra-planetary whatchacallums. Stay low, bend at the knees. Watch for trains. When you look around you find the drums have gone. Tricky as we had planned to follow them home. We will rely instead on the songs of birds & the clockwork rhythm of our snared hearts. Go now, your qat is talking to you.