Careful on down that road, friend. It’s high nude. Andy, you in the Shadow of Marlboro Man. Grubbed laughter echoing throughout. That summer list of thank-me-knots tattoo’d on the ass caressing a star-lit skyline. Out West in California Son. A con that not one could characterize. Even in person. From a grave arises The Savage Young Taterbug.
Stretches of land that only lapsed memory can reach. Feeling like a lobe may have been lopped off riding shotgun with Free. Not really thinking about this right now with duster to the left. In a mask and “I like his little cigarette.” 100 proof and stolen barn-hung tobacco. How Rambo became an angel in the cracks of Chuck’s skin.
Mounting the teepee bonfire in a gas station basement. Someone whispering in the manhole, “Can I get a light?” Great Americana is abreast of professional slumber, lordy. The comfort of being known both ethereally and ephemerally: finding a spot in this fucking city to smoke a joint long enough that nobody ever knows.
But the boy in the field sees you. The rest of his life a ramble. A trigger memory so Pavlovian that resistance to crying isn’t an option. Like judging a good or bad criminal. The difference between a Molotov and TNT: two-fingers poor. Or something that doesn’t sound right at perfect audio. Reels that never existed. But grooved. But fried eagles. Being ripped off. OK.
Cat food in a doggie-bag. Whistling through a brain-bleed. Plumes in the horizon silhouetting Shadow of Marlboro Man. The Savage Young Taterbug is not of fear or evil. This is self destruction so ulterior it transgresses into a soulfulness embodied from artist to purveyor. Michael Jackson.
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