Commuted (downstairs) to modified glory layers. Something about a dog-eared appendix in her memory. Which story was that? There was a box from another Czech city, in the belly of a bean, some erratic miles above the Azores.
Anxiety freezes his nostrils and shakes the salt from his escaping veins.
Promotional materials under stale vessels and stories of the docks, years before the captain’s arrival.
“Last I heard, he pulled anchor for one of them central american retirement ports”
“Babysitting the sustainabily parrot” he said. “The unique variey that eats small creatures spawned from its own fecal canopy”.
“Held in infinite repeat mode I suppose, the mimicry of life eternal”, they prayed.
Beauty and ‘the sacred’ under pre-historic pillows. Shopping for sentient talismans on the internet again and again. The choice between fragility and a pock-marked blur. German scholasticism or plastinated animal backs?
“It’s just a vision man”, he reminds himself.
- proposed conference paper on pansychism (denied)
- submitted travel essay titled “Lac Thanh Bottle Opener” (denied)
- ALL local bars & booking agents we contacted about a specific tour date (ha!)
- labels wanting to release next comoros record (nothing yet)
That was last week.
Who will knock us over this week?
From Whitehorse to Tikal the dancers can hear you knocking lager bottles when Hank’s Lounge magically appears before you, stacked ladders above robot technicians who dare to embody Orson Welles.
We all produce what we consume and bitch and moan with varying accents over the din of hushed drones which fall off from frustrated, art-knobs dreadfully phobic of any adequate volumes. Slimm buys a round. Olson buys a round. Sinking against black-boxed vibrations with frames swinging on the pin-striped skull after stealing scraps of contemporary mind (from the corner of the park) and getting unfathomable refills to accompany my brown-lamp, wicked breakfast plate.