Well she start her routine morning, eggs and benny. Benzedrine, and, crack cocaine.
An M&M vitamin tupperware tube. And an insidious display in her brain.
Her name was Jasmine Vanilla, said she's from Manilla. Lived in a villa with a villain and a cat.
And a dog with a black eye, deemed a Russian spy, and blind Portuguese water rat.

Writing her history, of her own murder mystery. Misery and stains and facts.
She couldn't wash off the blood, carving faces in the mud. A feral cat who couldn't relax.
She turned her jukebox, luke-warm, playing soft-core porn, left playing when she went to vacate.
Running from the law, her brain needed to thaw. From Ukraine to Wichita on a freight.

The night was a sauna. The vapor was retracting from the clouds, and into the oil-corroded streets, concepting a lucid fog. Which was in turn, tuning the illuminated thresholds bearing aggressive cue-bald ogres, and the moaning neon signs into solar flares. Every archway, a seeming gambit into an unestablished parallel. The gutters were designated ashtrays: You were almost able to taste their impure familiarity in the thick humid twilight. There was a belt of light in a sultry array, circumferencing an illustrious panoramic. Meir glares and refractile bursts diminished cascadingly into the unseen climax of the massively paned steel giants. The heavens were yet to be seen, and the smoke had yet to settle. The colossal sounds of the concrete walkways were impregnable and relentless. You couldn't tell the pugilists from the pacifists. Every crevice was daunted, including the usual heads and obvious patrons that confide in what the womb of the night had to offer.

Earlier in the Evening

Earlier in the evening, when the lights were up and the heads were down. I was at an old run down bar that was more like a barn, but nowhere remotely close to a farm. The air was arid. And there was an atmosphere that was so unclear.

The bartender kept to himself, but he was quick to the punch and never took his lunch. Always the first to quench your thirst. The people around the bar: Jargon wailing and they're failing at catching the point of one another. They hover. Singing loudly, as one of those lone wolfs arose, to punch a drone in the nose.

It didn't cause a ruckus. No fuss, no bust, and the show went on. The band was sly. No wonder why, I could just tell by the sound of the sax. I better relax. Cool my jets, and let out the gas. A steam, coming from the piano, humming. Summing up my thoughts of the twilight. Breathing a new rhythm to my sight. To my mind, man, I'm not blind, I see clearly. I'm well defined. It hit you, the man on keys, plays a cool, steeze. All the girls around, hear the sound, their heads turn, and they smile so sweet. Even those with boys. But their boys don't notice, and it's better like that. That's a fact. The cat plays so cool, he makes a fool of us all. He's not appalled. Never glaring, but always staring, he's wearing a poker face, and knows everyone's face. Even those, from a different place. He doesn't get paid much. He doesn't complain neither. Never goes insane, he never disagrees. Just states his facts, and plays his stacks. No one could understand it. It's not planned. He's fusing notions resonating, demonstrating his creation on now. And now he knows there's nothing cooler about that time. It's a sublime hour to kick out the jams. Feel the people. Know the know, and know when to slow down. Set the sound. Even those who subconsciously pound. Their hands. Their feet. Competing with the beating of the drummer who's rubbing like a plumber. Sounds you ain't never heard. Coming from cans and lids, scaring all those kids. Peculiar. It's so strange. He's a stranger, but no one feels no danger. This cat plays the meanest blues, but the news is he can't hang cause of his dues. Sometimes though, he just jives. Like a night like tonight where nothing feels quite right.

Everything inebriated. A situation situating on a twitching abbreviated table seating several unable. To understand, the demand, for a contrived ascension. Music and people, opening dimensions, for just a small mention of what they did they night before, the night before. Like the night before. It was the same. Never lame when no one who comes around is the same. Some of the same faces. Different laces, clothes. Faux feathers and red robes. People change when they wake up. Especially those like here. Not fearing, but searing all the same. Bot to take the blame. No one's stressing fame. The cards are dealt. It's about 4 A.M. and am in need of four less than I've had to slam. I suppose I'm a veteran, on what this scene has to scramble. Try not to lose my composure when I ramble. Not to lose sight of what I gamble in this enclosure. It takes what it takes, You can have your cake, and raise the stakes, and have your steak and eat it to. You're not so used to. Things you don't choose to.

My mind now surges. These scourges of all have all fallen victim to the verges. I don't remember leaving. Once again, my liver grieving, over earlier in the evening.

Roast-Mortem

Baby, don’t you know I’ll jump your bones like a lemur?
Beat you with a club I carved out of your femur.
Oh, a firm believer, I don’t know where I’ve been.
Sport a fantastic jacket from your elastic skin.

You’re white and cool. You play by the rules.
Watch me shape your bones into primitive tools.
No, I’m not Amish. But I don’t need titanium.
Drink from a bowl I carved out of your cranium.

No lacerations. Fascinatingly neat.
I’ll turn your curvy pelvis into a bar-seat.
Your green eyes, I just don’t want to hide.
Peering at me through that jar of formaldehyde.

Baby baby, you give me needles and pins.
When I cut with cutlery I crafted out of your shins.
I can’t begin, but once I do I can’t stop.
Bend your arms back, until I hear the pop.

Oh no, I don’t want to hurt you baby. But I won’t let your hurt me.
I’d rather the both of us kill each other, make each other feel so free.
It sure is a crazy world. But we can make it if we try.
I don’t want to lie to you baby, so I guess we’re both fixin’ to die.

Macaroni & Jesus (Ode to Waits' Chocolate Jesus)

I don’t float down no Euphrates.
No Noah’s ark, I got my raft.
Sunday’s mozzarella deities.
Holy-cheese rivers, brought to you by Kraft.

I guess the book don’t make me better.
Than how my milk resurrects to mold.
So I mold my savior out of cheddar,
Watch my havarti turn from white to gold.

Carve me up a limburger grail.
Make it aged, strong, and thick-sliced.
Lift up the big pail of Wensleydale.
Let’s make Macaroni and Cheezus Christ

I don’t mean to be sounding so cheesy.
But Jesus knows just how I do.
We melt together on Sunday real easy.
Get on my knees and pray for cheese fondue.

So wrap me up in worchester.
Baptize me in brie.
Exorcize my soul in parmesan,
So Jesus can share his lunch with me.

Carve me up a limburger grail.
Make it aged, strong, and thick-sliced.
Lift up the big pail of Wensleydale.
Let’s make Macaroni and Cheezus Christ.

Prime-Evil

Existence just can't be what's real.
Reality hides in the shade.
Layed out what they can't really feel.
To steal an ideal disobeyed.

Furitive reaction to impulse.
Impulsively ignoring la monde.
Reflexes teeming to convulse.
Contriving a pulse in the pond.

Meticulous matters of reason.
Treason to bide with ones self.
Prying the event of the season.
Seizing all sanity and health.

Chaotically alter understanding.
Withstanding all others demands.
Apprehending thoughts now descending.
To cultivate their own selfish plans.

The Traveling Bill-Murrays (Traveling Wilburys)

Jack The Stripper (Jack the Ripper - Link Wray)
Rock, Don't Stun (Walk, Don't Run - The Ventures)
Ike, Anne, Harley, Stan's Tit (I Can't Hardly Stand it - Charlie Feathers or the Cramps)
Here Comes the Pun (Here Comes the Sun - The Beatles)
Tragical History Whore (Magical Mystery Tour - The Beatles)
Gay Stripper (Day Tripper - The Beatles)
Wicked-Lame (Wicked Game - Chris Isaak)
Hard Time Killin' Whores (Hard Times killin' floor - Skip James)
Reason She's a Bitch (Season of the Witch - Donovan)
Spouse of the Aspiring Nun (House of the Rising Sun - Eric Burden & The Animals)
I'll Be Crass (Albatross - Fleetwood Mac)
Haitian Guy (Aces High - Iron Maiden)
Satanic Impression (Manic Depression - Jimi Hendrix)
Themes to Offend (Means to an End - Joy Division)
Geek Eating Quiche (Freak on a Leash - Korn)
Trans-Vestite Princess (Trans-Europe Express - Kraftwek)
Sweet! Judy Blew Guys! (Suite: Judy Blue-eyes - CSNY)

All I have to say today.

The Owls are David Lynch.

The trees sway anxiously, waiting for the sun.
Bob lurks contemptuously, waiting for some fun.
A man in black, has some friends in high places.
The scorched stentch of oil makes Bob more evasive.
Mike and Philip will attempt to end Bob's caper.
Though not in rooms, where red drapes taper.
A shorting light, a riddle, and the owls hoot.
Lust for garmanbozia, and other Black Lodge loot.
There are no banks, no palms, and she's gone.
In the feral of the woods, where all good turns wrong.
12 antennas to bring shade in to light.
Only will the ring cease the fire walk tonight.


--Dedicated to Twin Peaks fans