Four pistons pumping black the ventricles.
This ink stains as Disney fades and drinks are drunk? Drank? Drunk, yes that’s the one. By the time we return with an eighteen pack, conversations spark like our shared history in a Santa Ana firestorm. Past drug experiences flare up too, seemingly funny stories like red embers crushed by torn up slip on vans and end up being sad parables of present failure.
Nevertheless they entertain a certain amount of ego. LP’s play, round and round the vinyl spins into a circle where we spit to strengthen the bonds so the knots don’t slip. Falsetto for Gabriele A knife blade for Brandon. A crooked finger for Joe.
Bleary eyed, tinsel teeth I usurp, sipping potent mixture of mind frosting, we pick up the signal out past the barrier and the signal is clear. In the apocalypse we shall run the earth with the iron fist of alcohol, heavily distorted guitars and mandatory promiscuity for all! Cull the population with detonating flat screen TV’s and radioactive Handheld GPS systems.
Alpha wave disrupters—beta droned an astragal super-conducting insulator for mars missions. Into space we four shall ride out as enemies of the sun, making love to the fading shadows, our heads upended.