Watermelon bubble gum, the smell of burning tarmac as the sun languishes upon the roof outside of my window every morning. Rays of light penetrating the makeshift tie dye curtain above my bed and tickling my face. Balmy walks through the forest and the burning muscles in the backs of my legs as i race myself to the beach. Bonfires and secret violins, naked on the streets, old faces in new places and that excitement of softnight San Francisco bop in the air. Oeople lean wildly from their apartments and play music to the street below. They dance across the corporate rooftops wearing sequins, blowing bubbles, shrieking in technicolour. The kiss of the sun upon tissue paper nipples on the rooftops, madcap musicians bleeding funk upon their strings, Snoop Dogg is standing in front of me and the whole world is aflame, i pass shrines and prayer flags during a Tibetan Buddhist retreat and spin the prayer wheel, sending fragile paper happiness into the world. I didn't find peace but there is a kind of cardboard in my soul. Golden henna flowers spiral across my skin, spiral and swirl and curl in the warm air like the thick smoke that warms our bodies on the beach and the luminescent sparks that shoot into the velvet dark when a rusty nail meets its death in the fire pit. You will always be naked yellow laughter, sunflowers and candles casting violet dark shadows on the walls as we drink life beneath our makeshift fort, stroking me to sleep.A silken sunset drive; Dandy Warhols at the Fillmore. Steaming Mexican Oakland cocktails and Best Coast on the West Coast surrounded by buddha and old friends from across the ocean, acid green spandex leggings, filling the streets of the city with dirty hot ecstasy. We watch the golden gate bridge from your roof and sleep without clothes under a union jack, we drive along that coastline, curling, swirling seductive, driving without end to the top of a mountain, Big Sur this is it, the fog sets around us and everything is swathed in mist. I find a deer pelvis in the stream and make a wish upon a shooting star, so many glittering, insatiable, dead and wasted stars. Is the pursuit of art and beauty a pointless aesthetic quest? Break and lose it all, forget everything, remember nothing. The future yearns into the clouds uncertain, the past much the same. My skin smells of sunlight and of possibility. Torn books and bike stained legs, a punk band tearing a thousand paper cranes from the walls, your wish is forgotten but it doesn't matter anymore because i think we are content. We were content, once. But there's a poetry in their lives and they allow that to lead them. Corso the quickest to grasp the exotic, the weird violent. You taste of Monday mornings and the eclipse was hidden behind a purple cloud. We paint our hands and press them across my bedroom walls, leaving our sweaty fingerprints everywhere, no stone left untouched. The empty handed painter from your streets is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets.Tomorrow, Kentucky, Texas, Arizona, Arkansas, Oklahoma Tenessee we are selling everything we own and driving through dreams back to reality but i am terrified of my delicate gossamer bubble being broken. This sky, too, is folding under you. You smell like realness but i know that nothing is real anymore. Language is merely a game. You tell me to take the scenic route, and i'll learn more that way. Walking on dumpstered eggshells. I listen to Arabia Mountain three times every day. You brought a sunflower and left it my my bed. Hammocks strung beneath the ultra-violet stars.Dean's madness had bloomed into a weird flower.Someone told me that if i go to the beach at midnight and dig among the surf there will be phosphoresence in the sand.
There are mason jars filled with candles strung between the trees and we will all find our way home, eventually.
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