I would never beatnik her. Perhaps we could exchange alphabets or hieroglyphics, or adding machine statistics. Cubes of aluminum might be romantic if she needed something easy to smelt or bang into a new product, something cylindrical with a tab on it. Something that would cuddle a cold carbonated beverage, the condensation would be like a half hours worth of tears, lacrimating to dehydrate and quench a colonies worth of kissed bacteria. I hope you will join me and complete the cycle of life and crush hard the module of my salvation. Thankfully the weight has been drained. I will get the next one unless you want to use the sacrifice of the cylindrical module, to manifest a cybernetic angel that will joyfully transport the cold libation to my clutches. Most of the fluid will leak out, but a few holy drops might evaporate into caelum. Dammit, where did she go? I'm drunk and she's gone. Will she be back in 5 minutes to explain the concept of disappointment? Yes or no? Will I be so gone, that I will forget her name. Like photons from the computer screen bouncing off my eyes, or the sound waves of a new sea giving an occupation to new sirens. And then in an instant she will hit. Something new, a tinge of her exact manifestation, is it good, passable, mediocre, or unforgettable? Should I tell her ahead of time my opinion or watch it flounder or flop. It may succeed even if it's not to my taste. Art is subjective but I tend to admire intensity and artistry and soul and heart and imagination and a touch of spiritual violence interrupting the stasis of our lithic ennui.
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| Nothing Michael's First Gig |
He played 4 songs: I can't go home again, Thought, Violence is stupid but I watch it in the movies, and Mourning Coffee Black House Blues.
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