Deliciously weary,solitude in waving grey matter,pre-cum on auto pilot,the next forty-eight hours unknown...uncared for, such is the deliciously melancholy befuddled wooz i have arrived at as the working week subsides away from the chalice thrown down by those who haunt clouds...it would be good not to pick up such silverware on Monday...however i know the grubs of the underworld will not rest until the power of coins fills all the pink balloons,
they fly from behind electric gates.
I have journeyed this week on tales of woes,my mind has boxed itself inside a rubber corset pulled so tight helium breath lavishes flight up to the greek gods, found pictured underneath Coco-cola tins,the red and white logo floats on every square yard of turf trod.
Hawkwind.." Silver Machine " haunts inside saddle bags across the desert in company with a horse with no name.