Hola Galeras,
New year old me.
Breast curves of dreams left in ash trays. Pencil cuttings from left over inspiration of legacy. I am but the hope of old generations snacking on disagreements. The led is synthesized to be dark and smoky. Better taste for capitalism but less filling.
The toe box of the studio is no longer vast or tight fitting. The silent parts are ment to be sexy but can no longer hold its own weight. Be yet the teeth and not the tongue and taste of us and our endless hungers. Scars and rubber bands holding the peace together.
If I were to bet on me for four more decades I would give you my dreams as collateral.
The desk is covered in half thought up plans, cough drops, clickers, harmonica from being 13 in human boy form, rolling papers and toy soldiers in a band I’m yet to imagine on page. These are my true currency.
Dreaming of smells from smaller mammals.
And yet I roll, I roll and nothing but dust are my new tattoos of the ink tribe. A king of an empty kingdom of returns from sanctuary sanity.
To be and do and sleep others dreams layered in like sandwiches. Run little boy run and tell them “we had cake when we were young.”
Mad man ramble…
jaws_blake 