Forced gore of four score 7 days, 7 lucky unlucky numbers of 13; expectations of what this day has planned. Fate is running about with a weed whacker, chasing mischief dressed in deaths black robe. These messed up hallucinations in PO dreams. The Oxide is much more critical for these illustrious illusions. The forced gore of the seven whores ago. Mongrel creatures of the night bred through inter-species relationships. No thoughts no consequences of the dog eared end of civilization. Seven days of severed nights, the patriotic drag queen dreams…a drug fueled wasteland where denizens stumble out searching out the admittance.
Clear your mind, cleans your soul…loudspeakers static humming…reverberating from the years of thunderous propaganda. Thursdays repealed. Re-apply with your faded face invoice posted many years ago from the ruinous destinations. Up, up and away Thursdays, Tuesdays looking better, and better. Better than butter on Wednesdays waffles. You’ve got to get going in faded black stock leather auto jackets. Faded like memories, images over-written, words blurred like past lives straining to be recovered after a core dump. Kicked to the ground like times, so many times before and what’s one more? Made know or making it known, what is the past is not precisely the future. Bits and pieces of the past future tense combined; co-mingled for this functioning present, running rampant adult visions of a child’s hell. Closed circuit vision; the clanking, the steel girders grinding, concrete screams like flesh torn from bone. Old designer fashions, ripped Westwood and Rhodes. Stolen imports from forgotten Orchard Park shops. It’s a zombie woof baby blue.
This child’s dream of hell, images re-occurring from recalled nightmare scenarios. Wake up baby blue, there is no point in that reality that cannot be compared to those candy coloured night crawler visions of the sickly sweet immortals. Papers, badges, screaming authority fueled voices cutting through the PO haze. (Remember that don’t you. Memories mislead and wash bleach out.) Whitewashed visions; of street walking Satan’s dressed in a pink jumpsuits popping out whack-a-mole holes. It is a carnival atmosphere; suppressed yet joyous parties of long forgotten Fat Tuesday celebrations. Bring it on. Needs desires wants come crashing down like concrete from the old WTC. Virtual reality tunnel turned game of the lemmings of Penn station. Dodge the concrete and steel in a psychotic version of Tetris.
Black and white hair peering out of the blvd watch tower. The Blue Green eyes pierce through the PO haze, reflecting the despair of the long abandoned K.K. Café doughnut factory tower sign flickering .ot …..nuts .ow