Outwest where this fire burns brighter. Outwest no where and everywhere at once. A lithium and a benzedrine and all the little pills they took when we were learning. And this jades me, man this jades me, and I see myself, a little old stranger confounded and confused. This wasted pile of energy - these ashes. She sees it happening again, and sometimes I wish I was dumb enough to miss it. Or unbroken enough to drink of this crazy beat river that runs through us all and hides in the city. To take off.
This wicked witch of wishes, unknown she pisses upon her thrown. Everybody wants a little of the crazy. They see it happening and wish to take a long cool drag from those who know. They want to talk to Indians and hold them in their hand and fear us even when they understand.
Its cold here, too cold even to dream, because these stories told by fires have no basis. You are uncertain.
I share undead wicked words with Bob the maker of dreams, and the parallels speak for themselves. He speaks of bevies of women. Grins his grin and guns the fatboy that is his mind and he becomes Dean Morriarty. I watch this change take place like you watch sun break cloud at the start of a long summer; that will be hot, that will be dry, that will be everything you oped
it would.
Oh yes, these people - my people I guess if I look at it that way and let them be - are already half dead and wearing worn faces that long for what ? Smiling here is a curse, a dark brief release like hitting or drinking or pissing on a road at night - alone into the moon in some great yellow rebel stream.
Half in love with Dean, and his freedom and all the happy children too big for this world. And what’s worse the ones that do fit - just - and bend their fucking branches and sit tortured bonsais in their incompleteness O why O why but the world isn’t free. Happy hiphip bebop heavy old burnt old musk artists play songs that finally I understand - world weary…So clearly the same as me. I love this hazy dream too much.