fuck I have been cold. I have been frightening cold, I have. until some small smile some sarah somewhere in this place post punk and petrified with perfect well wishing winning new paradigm nod to the North. if north is astral. if north is known by certain colors that stand out like a football I mean soccer jersey that’s brilliant yellow lighter than gold yet darker than lemon and loved even lusted after between air steam rising top of the crucial team consciousness on soft ground with soft ball and hard hand shakes the rising roof of random screaming. a world of color. a world of meaning. for most this was not so. but they backed on the tidal wave like the undertow. the passion of the few was where was sourced there you know. the masses go and they flow. the masses go with the flow with the go with the flow. sometimes this was impressive. other times stupid. because one circled roped in focus can distract from well you know, the life your wife around you. your son who packs a gun. and maybe boy or maybe girl, the foil wrapped careful cut icebergs or powders or icicles or dubsides, come half baked with home fries. for the waiting guys waiting sometimes impatient waiting. sent. sent by that curiosity fills the soul. kills some whole. just before the - you don’t know now you know - part. the grow on your street that your feet touch and meet there. pavements so hard. killed fred astaire. or would had he if he had only. like no bread, just bologna. with capers and mozzarella, white wet from the homeland. alive and kicking. kicking down the doors to taste buds. touch memory deeper than sentimental songs, you know. by heart. don’t start, ‘cause I’m not finished, …
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