Waves of sound threw my crown, bouncing a ricocheted beat through my bare feet, dancing on wooden planks, high-browed windows the look of New York Brooklyn in an Odd Fellows building painted in pale pinks, trims of yellow. Wouldn’t matter if they were UFO’s or quiet Nitin dropping deep into Beastie Boys with fanatical craze, those, yes, those, were the days.
Raining day Monday and everyone has to work or talk about the NPRing news feeds of court-cased, slap and damned parties and louder stereo’s might mean foul play and the end of governing institutions, boys born of shag carpeted rooms, Senate seats busted, confabbed, controversy, women and men, power pissing penises and the arguing just won’t stop and could it be true all is an orchestrated, strategically placed, bottle of coke when she offers her testimony--another joke of a placed pubic hair?
Well, too much can drive a person to, “who cares?” A day to get up, turn off the constant pumping, syphoning knob of propaganda feed, the unremitting degradation of once agreed upon lines, trounced upon, in formerly sacred spaces, cattle tromping and drooling within our temples, horror movies with spraying corn-syrup-blood and so instead of face to face spittle-spat blown in rigid, self-righteous shit-shingling, I’ll turn to hi-fi and dance off their grease.
Video Credit: A B/Youtube
