Butterfly in your eye, ladle in your cradle, sand for your shoes and a virus for your chips.
I dreamed I became as blank as my screen, my scream, the yellow glare of the jacklantern cat and the endless slush of the November snow. Red line blue screen red scream ice cream line noise cold cream snake ream black dream of big planes and a lonely country guitar in the southern night.
Strawberry parcels of memory come and go enmeshed in the crystal waves. Mileage, to the bright cold sun, man that is where its at. Mileage on the old shoes, old bum's shoes full of soul, full of stories. Stories of the seagull winds that flow the fire in from the green oceans, trading the green for the green, and the memory of love that we all forget the smell of.
What, with the old birds, and the new herds, and the Buddhist monk practicing the throat song by the 7-11, and the cosmic fallout of the fallen particles, in particular the ice cream quarks which bring on the dream of the blank screen. And the dream is always the same.
In the tall box buildings, the kind that are of the gray concrete and of the fortress, you see, there hive the ones that forgot their roots, and the Mother Earth, and the body above. They scream their isolation, the screams drown, all the silent screams, and the 500 channels of all the Nets, the screens, buzzing, buzzing. Genetic apes, lips stretching the mask, masking the pain, and the man with the smile sells dreams by the pound, a pound of time, your soul for some understanding, and a great payment plan.
In the big metal birds, and the small peptide birds that swim rivers of sleep, blue rivers of red, the message is the dream, which is always the same. The journey unfolds, open pulse of coincidence, virgin light and the view of the web and of crystalline lattice. Waiting with the best of them, you can rest easy, in the Mother Earth. The ageless dead encase the soul of the planet, miles of dead whispering the message, and laughing at the buzzing screams, the screams in my dream whispered over the lines, a pound of dreams for your soul, thin sliced, please.
Red phone rings, the scream on the line is never heard, there is no connection, inter ference inter phasing the buzz of the concrete hives where the metal birds only fly overhead, in the virgin smog light, and the crisp bitter snow of November.
But its only the man with a pizza in a box and a story to tell, the story of hell, his very own Hell, it's with extra cheese, so it sticks together better, but nobody cares.
There are no mistakes in the plans of insane, all contingencies fall into place, the finely honed facets of precision and dank indecision of the others involved in the flawless plans in the crystal minds which want the beyond but instead have cable TV.
I dreamed I became as blank as my screen, my scream, the yellow glare of the jacklantern cat and the endless slush of the November snow. Red line blue screen red scream ice cream line noise cold cream snake ream black dream of big planes and a lonely country guitar in the southern night.
Strawberry parcels of memory come and go enmeshed in the crystal waves. Mileage, to the bright cold sun, man that is where its at. Mileage on the old shoes, old bum's shoes full of soul, full of stories. Stories of the seagull winds that flow the fire in from the green oceans, trading the green for the green, and the memory of love that we all forget the smell of.
What, with the old birds, and the new herds, and the Buddhist monk practicing the throat song by the 7-11, and the cosmic fallout of the fallen particles, in particular the ice cream quarks which bring on the dream of the blank screen. And the dream is always the same.
In the tall box buildings, the kind that are of the gray concrete and of the fortress, you see, there hive the ones that forgot their roots, and the Mother Earth, and the body above. They scream their isolation, the screams drown, all the silent screams, and the 500 channels of all the Nets, the screens, buzzing, buzzing. Genetic apes, lips stretching the mask, masking the pain, and the man with the smile sells dreams by the pound, a pound of time, your soul for some understanding, and a great payment plan.
In the big metal birds, and the small peptide birds that swim rivers of sleep, blue rivers of red, the message is the dream, which is always the same. The journey unfolds, open pulse of coincidence, virgin light and the view of the web and of crystalline lattice. Waiting with the best of them, you can rest easy, in the Mother Earth. The ageless dead encase the soul of the planet, miles of dead whispering the message, and laughing at the buzzing screams, the screams in my dream whispered over the lines, a pound of dreams for your soul, thin sliced, please.
Red phone rings, the scream on the line is never heard, there is no connection, inter ference inter phasing the buzz of the concrete hives where the metal birds only fly overhead, in the virgin smog light, and the crisp bitter snow of November.
But its only the man with a pizza in a box and a story to tell, the story of hell, his very own Hell, it's with extra cheese, so it sticks together better, but nobody cares.
There are no mistakes in the plans of insane, all contingencies fall into place, the finely honed facets of precision and dank indecision of the others involved in the flawless plans in the crystal minds which want the beyond but instead have cable TV.
