witch. medicine woman. crushed velvet and killer basslines.




The wasteland is for the noble, the intrepid. I will dress for the occasion in coat and keep an ear out for the thumping wind against highest peak.

At the party I kept taking to the halls. Slim kid in the laundry, the drunk dj, listening to These New Puritans and At The Drive In. At an angle the chap who bent over in front of me was Bob Dylan, which I'm sure was his point. A kid called Davie was called a portal of interdimensional love and he came up and introduced himself and gave me his hand. I am disappointed he did not kiss my hand, in retrospect, as it may have sent me back in time.

I roamed again, alone, to the yard, to the couch on the porch, somewhere between the dying sun of a rustic dream and the wilderness of suburbia with the drunk ones on the sidewalk.

It was a brief, quiet, happy existance under the cover of night. Slumped out back under the trees on a forgotten chair interpreting Dreams. Watching a spider sew its home.

Sleep came quick. Like a gunshot up close. Obliterating the day and the evening. I was adrift on tidal dreams, until morning.