Bad guy, retread

 

I am the bad guy. I groove temptation

 

Advice to those of you in my boots:

Are you experienced?

If so, be like fire, a progressive, devouring, emotive force.

 

Demand damned pleasure.

Prey on the day.  

Memorized moments of frozen bliss

hold keys to the future.

 

The past made you what you are now.

Time to cultivate feelings long plowed under.

Bring your dreams to life.

 

Do not judge harshly; do not judge at all.

Seduce, not over minutes or hours,

but over weeks, months if necessary.

 

My blood is the color of a strong improvisational glance.

Match it, I assure you, we’ll soon someday dance.

 

Yours should be of similar hue.

Pray to the god of mega.

Be the god of you.

 

Periodically, I make a coordinated effort to resurface.

I do not break the ice.

I melt the ice.

I breathe tonal fogs anddream of feathercats.

 

Our generation, despite rumors to the contrary,

is not lost.

We segue into newer kisses.

We touch, figure, adapt, initiate, explore and relax.

We can be slippery and be seen while being the scene.

 

We can go underground and dance with dozens,

then alone.

Then walk away.

I have hazy, hazy motives and project cool, convincing glances. A hip nature comes to mind.

Sometimes it’s time to be the savior,

sometimes it’s time to recklessly accelerate with determination.

Sometimes it’s time to listen to you whisper and breathe and imagine you

four seasons into the future.

 

I refer to old chart pages of Rolling Stone for nostalgia. I burn memories like others burn dinner.

I establish myself today, I live for tomorrow.

I get serious about not getting serious.

 

Are you experienced?

 

Mindless

I don't know why the words aren't coming. Maybe, hopefully, I'm in a period of living and feeling as opposed to one of contemplating and describing. What I need is for all four to kick in at once.

Skull needle

I am searching for more than song-- I need to feel things. I'm so numb and apathetic and focused and bored. I need fire. I need truth. I need stimulus.

Lover at high noon

My lover at high noon in bright white and high heat. Church and horses and red barn and woods and cross post fences and cars driving in the distance. A muddy summer awaits her and that one magic word swings us into passion. Can't wait for air conditinioning in July...

Mr. Charles

His songs might begin deceptively simple. Or, they might slide into slippery melody guided by the slither of his piano hands and the grace of his raspy voice. But whatever, it's life and from intro to verse to chorous to orchestral glory to deceptively dramatic finish and grand finale coda, his was a all a flow chart about living.

Flash burn radio gaze

 

I need the will to take a chance, the confidence to accelerate. I need the ability to perceive speed. The blinding speed of gods, the binding seeds of atoms. The speed of me is the very essence of this ghost. I live life as the pivotal trip switch of my own chaos. Tripping the electric fuse box of chaos. Is there a god in the manual of chaos? Read the manual. It’s manual labor. It’s all bloody hands and smiling eyes and a whiff of salt.

 

How did I get from will to salt? I need sleep.

The Eagle has landed

 

Nothing like being awake for 42 hours in a row to simmer the mind down to the bare elements of clarity. Or whatever this feeling is called...