Pulling the blue tarp | Walking the wet pavement | Long-legged star above | Worn, dirty sneaks below | Empty screens aft and fore | We shut down while it rains | Thomas tips back Nescafe | Lori tipples an old brandy | As Meagan nurses lil’ Pet’ | The rain fizzles out | Pulling the blue tarp | Walking the wet pavement
It’s like someone listening to 8-tracks five years after cassette tapes came out. I’m still blogging. After 14 years. I’m an 8-track blogger. Fuck me in the ass-head. Twelve dime. Twelve dimes worth of some type of candy long since forgotten. Got me? You ain’t forgot me. The good thing about 8-tracks, so I’m told, is that they have eight full tracks. Hot rock. Jack White, please release your next album on MF-ing 8-track tape.
You do that, Jack, and I’ll continue my weblog madness. I’ll pound away with eight full tracks of letters, numbers, and other symbols per MF-ing inch. Line. Twelve dime. Jack White. Midnight! ELO! I’m the most illuminated on my own pages. NWO: You can’t mind-control this runaway train, because I’ve been beaten, broken, and genetically ass-eaten from before the start—before conception, before birth—so burn me with your futuristic eye-beams; cattle me in your detention pens; you can’t sterilize my viruses, or redact my pungent word poop. The more you try to erase, the more my stinking words will fertilize the rawest, roughest, driest earth and they will out grow your greediest, farsighted plans.
Why? Because these words drop without agenda, without monetary gain; they are aimless, analogue domains of magnetic might on this endless loop of 8-track tape. My fresh flesh-recorder has only a play and a pause. Button. And you can’t stop that which has already been forgotten. Got me?