I will try once more without a tree in sight.
moments of ghastly shapes, timed to produce the most noisome of places
to stand, reek of utter Lovecraftian, until dinner time or ready for
bed. that's Lovecraft all right, blue go black.
The Yardbirds begin to step up their amps, pound a little harder. the
blue changes and falls without more than a tempest for the kids. the
kids must go on.
Shatner had a history thru out the future he softened. it comes to this:
we are stoned from the beginning.
Flava Flav gets onto the smoke, and Abbie Hoffman tries some too. and
Whitney Houston, she lost into in exile. she dusted off the
pronouncement that the entertainment biz is evil incarnate, like those
flying crabs in Lovecraft's yore.
thus Brian Jones dies, history of turbidity.
and no mention of trees.
part 2, still no mention of trees. the drummer for Traffic died, the
drummer for Coltrane died, the drummer for Led Zep died, the drummer for
Benny Goodman died, the drummer for the Who died. imbibe the history so
far as it matters. without trees, of course.
part 3, and the tree cannot be produced. its smoke, determined by a
basic elemental practice, sheds nothing new.
and the one who left? studious haze of Paris Hilton's matchless eyes.
and an angel or two to hover the family frame, yet when the magazine
falls away, even Paris Hilton brightly, someone with a name must remain,
if only for the kids
such is the sake of elegies.
