Circus again. Usher Raymond. Korn. My mind is some sort of strange encyclopedic trove of constantly correlating music knowledge. Legendary in its aims and aspirations. “You can kiss my aspirations”. A line from a movie not coming to mind. An 80s movie maybe. Bug-eyed Picasso painting through a fish-eye lens. Maniacal laughter coats the hallway something rancid. Plush pleasure, rubber boots and Playtex Tupperware skirt. Millennium fashion. Darting eyes under eyelids initiating REM sleep or the acting of REM sleep. Deeper into the subconscious void. The wicked hallucination. CareBear intensive care. You know, all those bears do their own stunts. Can of creamed corn smashed open on blacktop. The clip loops three times before playing in slow motion. Stretching out, palms up, fingers interlocked. Shoulders reach. Simultaneous lullaby plans, plays over rotary phone line. The wire curls. Chaotic hair-do, unbrushed, untamed.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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