Grey lady, her spaceman darling, and their blue flower child, falling over the darkened days of November, dancing circles around the cruel sphere, taking the second exit to Tijuana for it’s the psychedelic hours around the Hollywood Hills. They’ve got decorated foreheads, skin colors that were coming off, a poised recline, smoky fame smoking off the orifices, lying about dying over the only wish of being a fashion, living on Venus hotel on Jupiter Boulevard, orbiting the roads, inspiring hurricanes in supermarkets, feeling birth, frazzling the air.
But when telephones discuss the obscene click of their tongues on the day of naked rain, it’s all under a bridge of setting. Disease, friends, frizzed hair, sadness, interludes of drunkenness over meditation, sweat, moans, spit – all in the sleep of their spirit.
Happiness knows when to electrify and when to keep up all night, for when they’re coasting away to the…
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