Primordial Eclipse

PIMPLY TEENAGER, excited goon, in real years, in the beginning, in exuberated in an outward changes blown by the rage of destiny reeled past everything between here and there; this mad screamed way tooooo deep of sorts that I knew (knew!) would end up becoming all that; let us gravitate within the hidden snow flurries in light speed down this country road, in George’s Caprice, a boat of an automobile floored where the cornfields plowed dark rows mud clumps only seen in the immediate headlight distance at the shoulders plummeting flurries streaked then in George’s brights. “tail you what” - The short squirm, squeamish cheekbones protruded at me. That was everything; so awesome, the mature anticipations with some Dinosaur Jr., which the excited goon, George, ricochet over-exposed t-shirts within, like screennames, Avatari; his ratty flannel unbuttoned, an eyebrow ring with my little pipe reflecting some tie-dye swirled-in colors on plastic reflecting my mind, hip facial hairs that were in actuality just too too sore to shave all the time; so, thinking, George cared as we drove further than we had to; for just a little thing, “you know the Peanuts part in LA Woman?” to clean and scrape, key plowed away resin caked black around the edges of the chamber; until runny stains stuck and the pyre smell consumed the air in the car and my icky fingers twisted and screwed the bowl back together awkwardly felt. George, cheesed over the music.

We had just head to some stripshop—enter the place in some commercial area parking lot SHATTERED ‘Fox-ontherun’ ruins between the subcity main intersections and subversive shopping center sign posts, beneath all the wire sags we were born into and grew towards—completely weird dream too spiritual, the essence inside them cracks of incenseNT #SKIDROW! varieties gathered, the candle fantasy creatures, the carved imaginations, the colored glass figurines bloomed ever-lasting; all that which seemed touchable at the broken entrance in the clear-light see-through teddy on a display; within, this presence of hologram stickers and crystal mirrored intercourse that neither he nor I knew yet, well…. then sucked the myths through.

PRESS PUNK COMPILATIONS in the bloody fantastic ooze of our heads, wailed in eardrums with electric guitar charges’ commotion, right mega inside the misunderstanding, poltergeist plague fuzziness and foggy sort of madness which began leaking in transfers of uninhibited minor seizures in equilibrium, oh yeah in the sense of raging separations that but remain inside that filtered swapping static mind falsely engorged by reflexive matters to keep awareness to the chords, to the desperate voice; to yet convertible speaking buzzed with bleeding ears and slits in exactly how fast I went to George, “you not g-going to just..” unleash thee Ohh the runs, eased, the splatters become soothing at the horizon which I’d never reach - a goosefleshed tunnel; the masses shifted and such, overwhelmed eyes admired the ghost of THIS unknowingly. Anyone say who I approached indirectly, through looks, the frayed patches of crackles when the plastic unraveled and GEoorge smack the CD in a radio on display, right there, full blast in a Kmart or wherever we anyway fixed, geeked, tweeked, cracked out and hyper intense, snorting, gulping, messing with my nose, tickles in several fidgets and itches, uncountable fingers while searching the jagged labels, rectangle stickered red round all the record label corners, the used CDs, plastic spines of the wriggling rage, gulped the designs, heart affixed there for a new supersonic toy behind the sliding plastic doors, a new thrill to push pwsh pwsh THIS further from the shivery nervous, into the foreseen forms. And my fogged reflection glare, weave between the cases and the infinitesimal raw sound ‘andIdontwannabehere-don’twanttostickaround’ which captured the essences, us, the perpetual world….. Yet it went soft; that place just pressed, rumbled my thighs, churned that canker-sore centered lumped or poked burn edged to my asshole; so I crouched down, still pondering a multitude of type, of fonts, digits, mini variations of expression, lines of poetry say—the sides, the layered scratches, the handwritten, the wasted rough etched scribbles behind the unclear sliding doors….the detailed sounds—which calm through the toils there at the tip of my penis….as I shoved my guts to hold the _ _ _ _ for a just a bit longer; before the energy crapped right on out, consumed a space of the unbearable eclipse.. #iswearyoullneverbe_lonelaaaaaaheyyyy